


Come Hell

by hydraxx, showmethelions (sightandsound3733)



Series: This is Why We Fight [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: 5+1 Things, Body Horror, Body Modification, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Injury, M/M, Rebel Leader Matt Holt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-07-05
Packaged: 2018-11-06 21:28:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11044677
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hydraxx/pseuds/hydraxx, https://archiveofourown.org/users/sightandsound3733/pseuds/showmethelions
Summary: 5 moments in Galra chains, and 1 after they've been broken.





	1. Chapter 1

_ I still have Shiro. _

That’s the one bare comfort Matt can cling to right now. Shiro is still here, in this godforsaken place, huddled next to Matt in a cell surrounded by aliens just as frightened as they are.

Matt’s fingers curl tighter through Shiro’s as he tries to hold on to the one thing he has left.

Shiro shifts next to him, moving just a touch closer. “Hey,” he murmurs, lips brushing Matt’s temple. “Relax, Matt. It’s going to be okay.”   
  
“How?” Matt winces at the broken crack of his voice. “How the hell is this going to be okay?” He wants to look at Shiro, but the idea of moving, of putting any distance between them, makes his stomach tie up in knots and his chest seize tight. “We don’t know what they want with us, no one’s told us anything—They took my dad! They just—he’s gone, and we’re here and—How is any of this going to be okay?!”

A couple of the other prisoners are murmuring to one another in strange, rapid languages, shooting occasional looks over at the two humans. Matt tries not to stare. This is so far from everything they’d imagined, even their wildest dreams and nightmares. His joking exchanges with his dad about being the first humans to make contact with extraterrestrial life never could have predicted… this. Imprisonment by hostile aliens, separation from one another, the threat of something unnamed that still manages to inspire shudders of fear throughout the place they’re being held.

But at least he has Shiro. 

Strong, sweet, somehow still fucking steady Shiro. Matt isn’t sure if it’s all an act, some sort of pilot’s trick they teach when faced with imminent danger, but Shiro has managed to keep his head throughout all of this. 

Matt feels like he’s seconds from falling to pieces. 

“I don’t actually have an answer for you.” Shiro frowns, watching the shadow of a guard pass under the door. “I’m not going to pretend that I do. We just have to stay calm… there’s nothing else we can do.”

 He almost wants to be mad at how effortless Shiro makes that seem. Staying calm? Is he kidding? But Matt knows him, knows how to read the tension in Shiro’s shoulders, the way the knuckles of the hand not held in Matt’s are blanching white from how hard he’s clenching his fist. 

Shiro’s just as freaked as he is. He’s just a lot better at choking it back. 

Somehow that’s comforting.  

“I just wish I knew what’s going to happen,” Matt whispers. His gaze is stuck somewhere in the middle distance, possibly hovering awkwardly over another prisoner, but he’s finding it impossible to focus in this damn light. For some reason the prison is bathed entirely in a dull purple glow that’s definitely messing with Matt’s eyes.   
  
“I know, love.” Shiro pulls his right hand from Matt’s vise grip so he can curl an arm around his shoulders. Matt closes his eyes, almost unable to believe how just that, just a murmured pet name, can settle the rabbit fast pace of his heart. Crazy to think that anything can feel normal in the midst of all this… to think that little endearments from his boyfriend can still matter so much.

Shiro’s careful fingers curl under Matt’s chin. Matt’s eyes flutter open to meet familiar grey ones, simmering with a mix of concern and fear that he’s trying to hide. Oh Shiro. 

“What?” Matt shifts, turning more toward Shiro under the comforting weight of his arm. “What’s wrong? Aside from… you know, the obvious.”

“I feel like there’s something I should be doing,” Shiro sighs, his thumb tracing slow along the line of Matt’s jaw. He drops his gaze, a frown pulling at his mouth. “Something I should have done to stop all this…”

“Seriously?” Matt blinks. “Wow, this is the worst time for your martyr complex to kick the fuck in. There is literally nothing you could have done to stop this.” Shiro’s shoulders tense up a bit more. Matt sighs, frowning. “That wasn’t supposed to make you feel worse, Shirogane.”

“I can’t stand just sitting here,” Shiro mutters, shaking his head. His fringe falls into his eyes and his hand falls away from Matt’s face. Instantly Matt misses the touch, and he’s quick to catch Shiro’s hand with his own. 

“I know,” Matt murmurs, threading their fingers together nice and slow. “You’ve always been a man of action.” He musters up the barest echo of a teasing smile, nudging Shiro gently in the side. “My big, strong man.” He gets a soft huff in reply, almost the breath of a laugh, and the flicker of Shiro’s gaze falling back on him.

“Matt—”

“There’s nothing you can do. To pretend otherwise is only gonna make you feel worse and I think we’re both feeling shitty enough without that.” Matt squeezes his hand, his heart giving a painful little flip at how… hopeless Shiro looks. How sad. God, nothing can fix this, not a single thing. 

Matt bites down on the inside of his cheek, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat. “I… can you hold me? Just—hold me?

Shiro nods, something fervent and bright sparking instantly in his eyes at the prospect of something to do. A way that he can help. “Of course.” He curls his arm tighter around Matt’s shoulder, eliminating what centimeter or so of distance had been left between them. 

Matt sighs and sinks into the embrace. They’re both quiet for a long time, letting the hushed sounds of the other prisoners wash over them both. Of all the creatures in this cell, they’re the only two huddled so close, and they’re definitely catching some looks because of it. Whatever. He’s not going to give up comfort from his boyfriend for anything. 

“Is it shitty to think that I’m happy you’re here?” Matt murmurs, pulling his knees in close to his chest. “That at least I’m not alone?”

“I don’t think it’s shitty.” Shiro’s lips brush against his temple again, a barely there kiss. “I’m glad I’m not alone either. I’m glad I have you, Matt.”

“I could be real sappy right now and say ‘you’ve always had me.’” Matt glances up with another whisper of a smile. “But I feel like that would be redundant, and also like I was stealing from several different romcoms at once.”

“Probably all of them,” Shiro almost laughs. “You and those movies…”

“You love my movies.” Matt rolls his eyes, squeezing Shiro’s hand. “Don’t even try to say that you don’t.”

“I love you,” Shiro counters, smiling now for real. All the breath rushes from Matt’s lungs at the sight of it, small and fragile and genuine. He can’t help but smile the same way in return, and Shiro’s smile grows, splitting almost into a grin. “The movies I could do without.”

“Fucking ass.” Matt shoves at him, a soft laugh bubbling up past his lips. “You’re the worst. I hate you.”

“No you don’t.” Shiro couldn’t look more fond if he tried. 

“No,” Matt agrees, a real smile settling into place. “I really don’t.” 

Shiro unwinds their fingers in favor of framing his hand to Matt’s cheek, leaning in for a sweet and gentle kiss. Matt closes his eyes and sinks into it. His fingers curl against Shiro’s chest, tangled up in the loose fabric of the prisoner uniform they’d been given to wear.

The kiss is short, too short, but it’s perfect. Shiro is the one to break it, resting their foreheads together with a soft sigh. “We’re kind of a cliche,” he whispers.

“Ask me if I care,” Matt murmurs, blinking his eyes open, grinning now himself. It’s crazy how good he feels right now, how he can almost forget where they are, what’s happening to them. How he can almost believe that they’re going to be fine. He has Shiro, how could they not be?

There’s a sudden rumble in the distance, a dull roar of noise that immediately gets the other prisoners keyed up, and the moment is shattered. Shiro pulls away, frowning as he glances around. The general murmur that filled the air is doused in panic so sharp that Matt can taste it.

“What’s going on?” Matt mutters. His stomach drops, every ounce of warmth from Shiro draining right out of him, leaving only cold fear in its wake. “Shiro…”

“I don’t know.” Shiro’s eyes are sharply narrowed. “I don’t know, but everyone else seems to… What do they know that we don’t?” 

With a deafening bang the door to the cell is thrown open, and a massive guard steps inside. “On your feet!” he barks, his mouth contorted around a nasty snarl. A flurry of movement ripples through the room as fear drives every prisoner off the floor.

Shiro’s arm falls off Matt’s shoulder as they stand. Matt holds tighter to his hand before he can pull that away too.

“I’ve got you.” Shiro’s attempt at a smile is a mockery of what it was just moments before. “I’m right here, I’m not letting go.”

“Promise?” Matt asks. He hates how small he sounds. 

“I promise, Matt. I won’t let go.” Shiro squeezes his hand, managing a quick kiss to Matt’s knuckles and another shadow of a smile for him. 

Matt nods, heart pounding in his throat. Shiro doesn’t break promises, not ever. It’s a childish thing to cling to, but it makes it easier to file out into the hall under the watchful eye of the snarling guard. They fall into loose rows with the other prisoners. Matt holds tight to Shiro’s hand as the huddled, terrified group trudges away from the cell, and true to his word Shiro doesn’t let go.

They wind silently through endless halls lined with more cells, each one packed with frightened prisoners. In any other circumstance, Matt would be fascinated by the vast collection of alien species here, but it’s hard to think about xenobiology when he’s one of the specimens himself. 

A sharp turn into a newly cavernous hall sends a chill down Matt’s spine. There are no cells down this one; it’s more of a tunnel than anything else. The atmosphere has changed instantly. It’s darker, there’s less light. It feels heavy.  

“What the fuck?” Matt breathes out, holding tighter to Shiro’s hand. “What the actual fuck?”

“I don’t know,” Shiro murmurs. Matt feels him press a little closer at his back, can feel his body heat and tries to take comfort in that. “Where are we going?”

For a moment Matt thinks the question is for him, and he can’t fathom why Shiro would bother asking it, but the answer comes quick and quiet from the tall, sickly-yellow colored alien nearest to them both: “The arena.”

“Arena,” Matt repeats, blood running cold. “What does that mean? What kind of arena?” He knows the panic is rising in his voice when Shiro squeezes his hand even tighter. “Shiro, we can’t—”

There’s no chance to finish his protest as they’re forced to a sudden stop, right at the end of what is definitely a tunnel. Matt’s heart stutters to a terrified stop when he sees a crowd. A crowd of thousands, _hundreds_ of thousands, screaming and yelling at whatever is happening in that arena.

“What is this?” Shiro asks the alien. “What is the arena, what are we doing here?”

“The Galra demand entertainment,” the alien murmurs, eyes drooping and sad. Resigned. “Their Champion awaits. They are eager and impatient for a fight.” 

The guard that led them to this place steps aside without a word, and another replaces him. This one is clearly one of the many mechanical drones that patrol around this place, and it holds a weapon, a broad, curved sort of thing that looks like a cross between a sword and an axe and a scythe. The drone doesn’t hold it at the ready, it’s not being used to intimidate them, they’re already petrified and everyone knows it. No, instead it holds it loosely. Casually. Like it won’t be holding on to it for much longer. 

It takes about two seconds for Matt to connect the dots. This drone is holding a brutal weapon in front of an arena crowd that’s hungry for a fight—it’s a scene repeated through history, and one that floods his brain now. Grainy photos of art from history class, gladiators decked out in armor and thrown into a ring to face starved and desperate beasts. The sick pleasure of the crowd. An arena drenched in the blood of too many to count, too many to name—

“This is the fucking coliseum.” The words fall unbidden from Matt’s tongue. His voice cracks, breaks, he feels like he’s choking on the sound. It’s too much—he knows what’s happening now. It was better not knowing. “This—death matches. We’re being thrown to death matches!”   
  
“Matt, calm down.” He can feel Shiro’s pull on his hand, trying to get him to turn around and meet his gaze, but Matt can’t look away from the mouth of the arena, the deafening roar of support from the crowd.

“I—I can’t fight.” Matt is babbling, he knows he’s babbling. He’s incoherent and panicked and two seconds from being sick with fear, but he can’t stop, can’t center himself, and even Shiro at his back can’t calm him any longer. Their moment in the cell is just a dream and this is the nightmare they’re living. Matt pulls his hand from Shiro’s grip without thinking, his hands shaking too badly for him to control. “I’m not gonna make it! I—I’m never going to see my family again!” 

His family. His dad, sent to work camps from what they had been able to figure out, too weak, too old—they hadn’t understood for what, and now it’s too clear. His mom will lose them both, after she’d made them promise to come home safe. And Katie, little Katie, his fucking genius of a baby sister won’t have a brother to look out for her any more.

He can hear Shiro, can feel him reaching out again, but nothing's making sense any longer, nothing but the sharp burn of panic and the sting of fear. Even the noise of the massive arena crowd is subsumed by the ringing and rushing in Matt’s ears. He’s vaguely aware of some movement around him, but nothing is registering.

The hazy purple world swims before his eyes, and the sting of bile creeps up the back of his throat. He’s gone, disconnected from this hell, frozen in place by fear. It’s like he’s watching from a distance as the drone raises the weapon and points it straight at him. 

Chooses him.

For a moment, everything stops. His world has narrowed down to the blade of the weapon. It glints in the dull light of the tunnel, thrust out against the sharp brightness of the arena itself. This is it. He’s going to die. 

The thought is there and then it’s gone, knocked out of him like all the air in his lungs as he’s thrown back and slammed into the ground. Matt gasps, scrambling to grasp what’s going on, cries out at sudden white hot pain—something’s wrong with his leg?—and then Shiro is there, pinning him to the ground. Matt finds himself staring into grey eyes he knows so well, but are near unrecognizable for all the anger that he finds there now. Shiro is angry, he’s furious, shouting something— _snarling_ , and Matt can’t understand. _What’s going on, what’s happening?_ He wants to ask, but the words won’t come. 

Confusion reigns supreme. He feels like he can’t make his brain process things fast enough, can’t breathe deep enough to clear his head and understand. Matt doesn’t know what’s happening, or why the anger drops away, leaving only sadness in its wake as Shiro whispers, “Take care of your father”—before he’s gone.

Before he’s _taken_.

There are gentle hands at Matt’s shoulders, and soft murmurs that he can’t make out. It’s the alien who’d answered Shiro’s questions. He thinks they’re asking if he’s okay, but it doesn’t matter. None of it matters because Shiro is gone, being shoved into the arena with the blade in hand. Shiro is gone. Shiro is—

“No!” Matt tries to spring to his feet, but even without the hands on him, concern quickly becoming restraint, he can’t get up. Pain from his leg keeps him down, blood running hot and fast from a gash above his knee. _“No!”_ he screams again.  

Shiro manages one last glance over his shoulder as he’s pushed into the ring. There’s a glint off the blade of the weapon, a wet sort of shine. It takes Matt a second to realize that it’s blood, that it’s his, and then the pain in his leg makes sudden, horrible sense. It’s all too clear what Shiro has done, the choice he’s made for them both. 

“Shiro! _Takashi!”_ Matt chokes on his name and tries to lurch forward again, stopped not by the other prisoners this time but the forceful grip of a snarling guard.    
  
Pale with fear, a sick mix of terror and determination in his eyes, Shiro offers him a smile. A small, barely there, heart shattering smile, before turning his back on Matt and being shoved forward into the open space of the arena.

The crowd roars.


	2. Chapter 2

Matt isn’t sure why it took him so long to realize something was wrong.

Maybe it was the situation. Everything was wrong about that, down to his father’s hand clutched in his own as they shuffled through the narrowing paths of the mines like cattle.

Hopeless, helpless, captured and imprisoned, Shiro lost to him now forever, while Matt was thrown into the depths of a mine with prisoners like himself. They had all been deemed too weak, too pathetic, to be put to use anywhere else, and they would suffer for it. To die in the arena is an honor—Matt got that pretty quickly from the chattering of the guards and murmuring of prisoners. But to be in chains? That is a disgrace.

Matt sure felt like a disgrace as he limped pathetically along with the others. Every step he took was chased with a sharp sting, a reminder of Shiro’s sacrifice, the part he played to save him.

Something more was wrong than that, though. The burn of his lungs should have been a warning. It _was_ a warning, just not one he heeded for some godforsaken reason.

It wasn’t until he saw the sickly shine of blood on Sam’s lips from coughing that Matt realized how bad it might be.

“Dad,” Matt says, eyes widening in horror when he hears the painful crack of his own voice. He curls a shaking hand around his throat. He tries to clear his throat and instantly regrets it. What had been a burn becomes a spark and Matt is choking on the concern he’d been about to voice.

He pulls his hand from his father’s grip, covering his mouth as a violent cough rips itself from him. Something warm and wet lands in his palm, and Matt knows it’s blood even before he tastes the tang of it on his tongue.

A passing guard frowns at their lagging pace. “What’s going on here?” he snaps.

Matt manages to suck in just enough breath to rasp, “We’re—blood—” before another cough wracks him and he doubles over. He barely feels Sam’s hand on his back.

The guard gives an irritated huff and reaches for a communicator strapped to his armor. “Commander,” he says crisply into the device. “I have two prisoners causing trouble.”

Matt can’t hear the response, can’t really focus on anything past the burn in his throat and the familiar clutch of his father’s shaking hand on his shoulder. Sam’s grip feels too weak, too frail. Matt’s never thought of his father as frail before.

“They are unable to keep up, holding up the rest,” the guard growls. A pause. “I am not sure, sir.” The guard looks toward them both, but Matt can’t see his eyes. They’re covered by the helm he wears. “Possibly ill.”

There’s another pause, and Matt can make out the guard’s mouth curling with disdain as he listens. “Yes, Commander.”

The simple task of breathing requires so much focus that Matt barely registers the guard hauling them back toward the entrance of the mine, passing them off to someone else, giving a curt order. They’re stumbling into the actual base, every breath a new agony.

Matt can’t even begin to wrap his head around what’s happening, why they’re being taken out of the mines instead of being left to die, and if the black dots that swim at the edge of his vision are any indicator, he’s not going to be conscious long enough to try.

“Dad,” he croaks, trying to blink the spots away as they pass buildings he barely recognizes.

“Don’t panic,” Sam manages to say between the wet, hacking coughs. “Try to stay calm, son. Don’t—” Whatever he’s not to do is lost to them both as Sam nearly hits the ground when the coughing gets even worse.

Once more he’s hit with the thought of his father as weak, unable to stand on his own two feet, and Matt feels his stomach churn. _Take care of your father._ Shiro’s voice is both a balm to his panic and a knife to his heart. The last words from his love were a plea and here they are now, choking on their own blood and pain…

Matt reaches for Sam’s hand, holding on tight as they’re manhandled further into the unfamiliar depths of the camp. He can’t fix this, can’t take care of Sam or himself, that much is clear, but he can do this. He can hold on.

As if from a distance Matt hears a deep voice asking, “What is this?”  
  
“They were in the mines, sir, a guard brought them back out on the Commander’s orders—they’re coughing blood.”

“Give them here.” Surprisingly gentle hands settle onto Matt’s shoulder and jaw, tilting his head back to see yet another towering Galra. This one isn’t dressed like the guards; he’s wearing dark clothes but no armor, and his purple head is uncovered. An officer.

“They’re two of the new prisoners, sir.” The guard who brought them in speaks crisply, and he stands at attention as best he can while holding onto Sam, keeping him from sinking to the ground.

Matt swallows roughly, choking back a cough and instantly regretting it. Hot jabs of blinding pain stab into either side of his ribs and his eyes actually roll back a bit, his knees going weak. This is way fucking worse than his leg, which is practically forgotten now with all the new and terrible shit happening. The officer just scoops him up into his arms.

That is—not what Matt was expecting, but okay, he’s being carried over to a narrow examination table while the guard gets Sam to shuffle over to a chair.

“You should have brought them right to me before they ever saw the inside of a mine,” the officer scolds the guard, laying Matt out on the table. “As the commanding medical officer for this colony it is my responsibility to document new species—I’ve already lost one to the arena,” he adds, sounding annoyed.

“I’m sorry, sir.” The guard sounds a million miles away, even though he’s still in Matt’s sights, steadying Sam in the chair as he doubles over coughing. “I didn’t—”

“I want to see Captain Thaxor. Now.” The bite to the tone makes Matt flinch, and it sends the guard scurrying from the room. The officer growls lowly, mostly to himself, retrieving an oddly shaped handheld device from a nearby exam table before turning his attention back to Matt.

Like before it’s with a gentle touch that he turns Matt’s chin. “Hold very still for me,” he murmurs, activating the device with a soft trill of beeping. “Try not to cough.”

Matt trembles with the effort of holding in the breath that wants to claw its way out of his lungs, forcibly restraining it instead to a shallow cycle through his nose. The officer murmurs to himself while he works the device. Once he’s been over Matt’s whole body, he flicks the device off and pulls out a holopad to take notes.

The door bangs open in the middle of his note taking process and the officer looks up.  
  
“Kranok.”

Matt lifts his head just enough, suppressing a cough, to see that a new, stout Galra is the source of this rumbling voice. He can see his father trying to stay upright in the chair, tracking the movement of the new arrival with all the clarity he can manage at the moment.

“Captain Thaxor,” the officer—Kranok—acknowledges. “These prisoners—”

“Are under _my_ command, not yours!”

“And under _your_ command they were dying.” Kranok narrows his eyes at the holopad before whipping around. “Poisoned by the chemical mix of emissions in the mines. Their bodies are not equipped to process it.”

“You had no right to—”

“They were sent here on the Commander’s orders. I did nothing but take in those brought to my infirmary.”

Thaxor fumes as Kranok moves to a large holo screen on the wall, typing in a fast sequence of foreign characters. Matt swallows roughly and tries to catch his father’s gaze while the officers are distracted.

Sam is panting in his chair, pale, eyes fixed on the floor. God, they’re going to fucking die here.

“They cannot go back into the mines without a respiratory filtration system,” Kranok continues, toneless and seemingly uninterested.

“Then they are no use to me!”

Kranok lets out what sounds an awful lot like an exasperated sigh. “Let me study them, Captain, and I will present to you options for reassignment based on their biology and skills. We know _nothing_ about this species yet—it is a tremendous opportunity—”

Thaxor’s scoff cuts off Kranok’s plea. “I am here to run a mine, not a laboratory! Treat them and get them back to work.” He turns and storms out of the infirmary without another word.

“We’ll see,” Kranok mutters, lips curling distastefully at the captain’s brusque departure. Thoughts flood and overlap Matt’s focus, questions compounded together, fear and confusion mingled tight at the edges. What he wouldn’t give for just a moment’s reprieve…

A sharp ping rings through the room. It’s with a pleased-sounding rumble that the Galra returns to Matt, this time equipped with two syringes filled to the brim with dark, viscous liquid.  

“What—” Sam sounds strangled as he tries to get the words out. “What is that? What are you doing to my son?”

“Dad…” Matt closes his eyes tight against a shift in the pain. The burning is back in full force. “Don’t…”

Kranok cocks his head, looking at Sam. “You are related?”  
  
“He’s my son,” Sam repeats in a rasp. He reaches for Matt but they’re too far away. “Please—”   
  
“I am not going to hurt him,” Kranok insists curtly. That doesn’t make the syringe look any less worrisome. “It’s an antidote. To counteract the effect of the poison before it gets too far into your system and compromises any other processes.”

Without any more warning than that there’s a sharp prick in the side of Matt’s neck and a sudden rush of ice into his veins. His eyes shoot open with a gasp, and the cough that had been catching in his throat stalls.

And then, all at once, there’s relief.

The burning subsides, the coughs stop coming, and Matt can feel the hazy disaster of his mind begin to clear. “Oh,” he swallows roughly, lifting a shaky hand to press against his throat.

Kranok hums, pleased with this. Matt watches with bleary eyes as the Galra moves to his father, sinking to one knee to bend his massive form to Sam’s current height. “Up,” he instructs, helping Sam tilt his head the way he needs before administering the remaining dose quickly.

He can hear his father gasp, soft and rough, and Matt wants to sit up, wants to be able to really see how he is, if he’s alright, but everything feels… heavy. Matt frowns. The black dots that only teased at his vision before are swarming together now.

Matt swallows experimentally, fighting to keep his eyes open. It doesn’t hurt anymore, not even a bit. Things are just tender now, and only the barest hint of blood lingers on his tongue.

“Don’t fight it,” Kranok orders as he puts the syringe away. “It will only disrupt the healing.”

It seems to Matt like he doesn’t have much choice as the darkness slips over his eyes.

When he wakes he’s been moved to something like a cot, or maybe just a sleeping bench, and he can see his father unconscious on something similar nearby. Panic bubbles instantly in his stomach. Matt tries to sit up, to get to Sam, but all at once he’s aware what a terrible idea that is—everything fucking aches, a deep-seated pain that seems to have settled right into his bones.

“Fuck,” he groans before he can stop himself, squeezing his eyes shut to block out the little pinpricks of color that invade his vision.

“You’re both very insistent on moving when you shouldn’t.” Kranok rises from a chair at the edge of the room, waving away a holographic screen as he does. “Does your race not practice such healing?”

It takes Matt a moment to realize that he’s actually being expected to answer. “I… Nothing so instantaneous,” he manages roughly. His voice is wrecked, an absolute cracking mess. He curls a shaky hand around his throat, wincing. “We don’t… I would assume our medicine is pretty primitive compared to whatever is happening here…”

Kranok hums in answer, retrieving the handheld device from earlier, approaching Matt with an easy, steady gait. “Yours is a fairly young species, it would appear. That you have the capacity for intergalactic travel is novel enough. Sit up.”

“What?”

“Sit up.” Kranok steps right up to Matt’s cot. “If you are able.”

Matt struggles to push himself up, but his shaking arms make the process difficult. He tries to swallow. “What do you mean—intergalactic travel?”  
  
Kranok raises one long, slender eyebrow above a pupiless yellow eye. “I believe the meaning is self-explanatory.”

“I… maybe it’s semantics, but we didn’t willingly leave our solar system.” Matt grits his teeth and forces himself up. It leaves his head spinning and a sour taste coating his tongue, but he’s up. Success.

“Nor do many. The means of removal are unimportant. But you traveled far enough from your home planet, from safety, to become vulnerable.” Kranok’s eyes narrow slightly. “Assuming that your planet was ever safe to begin with. Few are.”

Matt doesn’t know what to say to that, but he’s saved from having to come up with a response by Sam groaning back into wakefulness.

“Stay still,” Kranok orders, glancing past Matt at Sam.

“What did you do to us?” Sam croaks. He blatantly ignores Kranok’s direction and rolls onto his side, trying to push himself to a sitting position like Matt.

“I said to stay _still_ ,” Kranok snaps. “I have only the most preliminary data on your biology, and if you keep disrupting the work I will be of no use in finding an alternative assignment for you. But if you desire an agonizing death in the mines, please, continue.”

Sam gives him a dark look but settles down at that.

Matt, too, stays motionless while Kranok continues going over him with the odd scanning tool. He can do this for his dad. He can keep them out of the mines—if he gives this Galra the information he wants, if he proves to that captain that they’re worth keeping alive, if he plays along well enough to give them a shot at survival.

He doesn’t have any idea how he’s going to manage it, but Sam is all he has left to lose.

Kranok doesn’t say anything else to them while he works, eyes moving steadily between whatever readings he’s getting from the scanner and Matt himself. Every flash of those pupiless yellow eyes sends a chill down Matt’s spine.

It’s not long before he seems to be finished, pulling away from Matt, moving toward Sam instead. Matt bites hard on the inside of his cheek at the sharp, defiant light in his father’s eyes and silently begs him to cooperate.

If Kranok notices, he doesn’t seem to care. He helps Sam sit upright, still almost oddly gentle, and sets about taking his scans again.

“What’s going to happen to us?” Matt asks quietly. God, he hopes that the pain of talking subsides soon. “If we can’t work—that captain—”

“Once I have an assessment of your species and your abilities, I can make a recommendation to the captain as to your work assignment.” Kranok’s face twists into something unpleasant as he adds, “Not that he particularly cares about efficiency or welfare.”

“We have skills,” Matt says, the words tumbling from his mouth all in a rush. “We’re—I’m a biologist, but I work on computers too—”

“Technology?” Kranok looks over at him, thin eyebrows raised. “You have no knowledge of our systems.”

“I learn fast.”

Sam snorts at that, and despite his unease about Kranok, he confirms, “Annoyingly fast. We are—were—explorers for our planet, the first to travel to the edge of our star system.”

Kranok makes a small noise and mutters to himself, “An irritatingly audacious species. Throwing themselves in harm’s way for nothing—”

“For _science_ ,” Matt interrupts to correct. “For discovery.”

The Galra turns to fix Matt with that unsettling stare. “You would sacrifice yourselves for enlightenment?”

Matt shrugs. “Not even enlightenment. Humans do wild shit all the time just for a little more information. People get killed on like, archaeological digs on our own planet.”

Kranok blinks, then turns slowly back to Sam and continues his work. As he does Matt barely hears him murmur, “Knowledge or death...”

“A bit of a dramatic overstatement of perspective.” Sam quirks a brow up, seemingly able to do what Matt can’t and meet Kranok’s gaze head on. “But in a way, yes. Knowledge or death.”

Kranok doesn’t respond, focused on the scanner, but Matt can see the way his broad shoulders go just a touch straighter, just a bit tenser. Matt frowns, trying to puzzle out what set the Galra on edge. What did they do? Is he angry, frustrated, annoyed with them?

The scanner gives a chirp and Kranok sets it to the side before turning away from them both, pacing toward the wall of tech on the far side of the room. Matt meets his father’s confused gaze, wary and trying hard not to edge toward scared. He wishes they were just a bit closer so he could reach out and touch him.

“You do not know our language.” Kranok’s low rumble startles them both. His back is turned to them, long fingers moving fast over a holoscreen. “The translators make it so you can understand it when spoken. But they will not aid you in learning to read it.”

“No,” Sam says slowly, tearing his gaze from Matt’s own, brow furrowing deeply. “Auditory translation won’t affect visual stimuli. But if we can get a basic grasp on the character system—surely we could learn. There are many systems of human writing that can be learned by those who don’t speak the language.”

Kranok stays focused on his holoscreen and never pauses in his work, but he murmurs, “Perhaps this could be arranged.”

“Really?” Matt asks. “That’s it? You’re going to help us?” After everything, after being taken, separated, after losing Shiro… they’re being helped? Just like that? “Why?”

“Matt,” his father’s tone is urgent. “Son, don’t—”

“Because whatever Captain Thaxor’s prerogative may be, I do not hold with gratuitous cruelty,” Kranok interrupts flatly. “If you can be found useful, you will do the work that matches your skills. There is no sense sending you to your deaths.” He finally turns to look at them, though his face remains unreadable. “It would be impractical.”

If only the guards who threw Shiro to the arena had felt the same.

Matt shakes his head to clear it of that thought, squeezing his eyes shut. He can’t think of Shiro any more. He’s got to prove himself to the Galra and keep his dad out of the mines, because Sam is someone he can save—and Kranok is speaking again, telling him exactly how.

“I have enough authority to keep you here for a short period. This is standard procedure for observing and documenting new species. During that time you may work with what technology can be provided, and if you prove proficient, perhaps an assignment can be arranged corresponding to those skills.” He gives them both a stern look. “This is not a kindness. You have one chance.”

Matt trades a glance with his dad. One chance is all they need.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains somewhat graphic descriptions of violent body modification & body horror. If this is something you can’t read, there will be a non-graphic version posted on our blog (this-iswhywefight.tumblr.com).

“Dad, if you think I’m letting you in the mines, you’re crazy.” Matt rolls his eyes, reaching for the little ventilator on their worktable in the tech hub. He doesn’t need to look to know that his father is frowning at him deeply.

“Matt—”

“Nope, we had a deal.” He slips on the machine and activates it with a press of the button on the side. With a soft hiss it locks down, sealing to his skin, tight and a little uncomfortable but Matt’s not complaining. If he can feel it, that means it’s working and that he won’t be inhaling any poison.

Not today, at least.

Sam sighs, nice and loud, and for the moment it doesn’t sound tired. It sounds much more like the sighs he remembers from home, from when his father would break up fights between him and Katie. Fights might be the wrong word. Impassioned bickering might be better. It’s almost enough for Matt to smile just from hearing the sound, almost enough to make him forget their bleak circumstances and why Sam has cause to sigh like that at all.

Matt turns to face his father, brushing overgrown bangs from his eyes. “Dad. We both know it’s better if I’m the one to go down for the service checks.”

“I beg to differ,” Sam says. He scowls at the screen of the console from which he supervises the daily diagnostic check that’s become one of their duties over the last handful of weeks (months? They still aren’t sure how to sync these time cycles with Earth’s) of their time as prisoners together.

“And I’m ignoring that.” Matt shrugs, pacing over to the small work table Kranok had helped them stock with the necessary tools to tend to the tech all over the base whose upkeep they now direct. Matt has no idea why the Galra medic took a real interest in keeping them alive long term, or what he did to get them this position taking care of the base’s tech and systems, but he’s sure as shit not going to question it.

It’s a good gig overall, much better than the mines, and one that allows them quite a bit of freedom to boot.

Matt’s really just grateful it’s a job that keeps them together and alive.

He grabs the thin tool belt and straps it to his waist. It’s loose, practically falling off. Matt can’t tell if that’s because he’s even thinner than he used to be, or if it’s just because all the Galra seem to be ridiculously stacked. “I’m going into the mines, I’m not letting you do it, end of story.”

“Have you forgotten that I’m the parent here?” His father’s brow is deeply furrowed. Matt can’t look right at him. He looks so upset, so worried. “You’re hardly in a position to be telling me what you’re going to let me do, son.”

“Have you forgotten that we’re prisoners?” Matt swallows back the bitterness on his tongue. They are both well aware of their situation, they hardly need reminding.

Sam sighs, sad and tired with just the tiniest hint of what feels like disappointment. Dammit. Not what he wanted.

“Matt…”

“Dad, just...stop.” Matt sighs, laying his palms flat on the table top. “I’m trying to do something, okay? I’m trying to make this a little easier.”

“Nothing about this is easy, son.” Sam closes the distance between them. Matt closes his eyes when he feels his father’s hand curl around his shoulder. “I don’t like that you’re willing to put yourself in this situation for my sake.”

Matt clenches his jaw. “It’s all I can do. Let me do this.”

Silence settles between them for the longest few moments, and then Sam breaks it with yet another sigh. “I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” he murmurs, grip tightening on Matt’s shoulder. “You shouldn’t have to take care of me.”

“Well I am.” Matt turns to him with the barest hint of a smile curling at his lips. “Deal with it.”

“Brat,” Sam says, faintly fond, pulling Matt in for a hug. Matt sinks into his father’s arms with a sigh and closes his eyes tight. “Be careful,” he whispers, pressing a rough kiss to Matt’s temple. 

“I will. I promise.” Matt’s voice is almost comically muffled by the ventilator pressed against Sam’s shoulder. “It doesn’t even look like a bad repair. I should be in an out before the next guard switch.”

“Where are we right now?” Sam asks as they break away from each other. “Second or third?”

“Third, I think.” Matt squints at the timepiece embedded in their wall. “So… Gamma should be the one to bring me down.”

“You’re really sticking to the Greek letters?” Sam chuckles, shaking his head. “You could just learn their names, son.”

“I don’t want to know their names,” Matt shrugs. “They all look the same with their helmets down anyway. This is easier.”

Sam shakes his head again as he paces back to his console, but like before it’s fond. “If you say so.”

The timepiece changes with a soft alert and the door to the workroom hisses open. Matt would grin triumphantly if he could as the tall guard, thinner than the rest, that he’s dubbed Gamma, steps inside.

“See you in a bit, Dad.” Matt gives his father a wave, already crossing the room to meet the guard at the door. “I won’t be long.”

“Be safe!” Sam calls as they exit.

The door hisses shut behind them and locks automatically. Gamma readjusts his grip on his blaster. Glancing down at Matt, he says flatly, “Let’s go.”

It’s only a short walk to the yawning mouth of the mine, barely enough time for Matt to quell the usual anxiety about willingly walking into the place that nearly killed him weeks (months?) ago. Fortunately, he’s in the habit now of using the meditative breathing that he learned during his Garrison years. He’s also in the habit of very much not thinking about the charming cadet who taught him those exercises and then got himself killed for no fucking—no. That’s not useful.

Thinking about Shiro is just impractical.

Matt follows Gamma down into the mine, a little relieved, as always, when there’s no burn in his lungs or rising cough in his throat. Even after so much time and many successful trips into the mines without incident, he can’t quite shake the fear of coughing up blood and choking on gas.

The prisoners are hard at work. Matt nods in acknowledgement of the few eyes that flicker up for a glance as he’s escorted past. Some nod back, others just look away.

“Think you’ll be quick today?” Gamma mutters as they walk, holding his blaster too loosely, too casually to really be on alert.

“Should be.” Matt shrugs a shoulder, glancing up to meet the dark panel of the helmet visor. “From what the readings said it should be a simple recalibration. Who actually knows what I’ll find when we get there.”

Gamma grunts in place of a response. It’s not much of an interaction, but it’s a damn sight better than the way Matt knows some of the other prisoners get treated. It’s just one example of the almost fond way that the main cycle of guards have taken to treating Matt and his father, ever since they’d proven themselves rather talented at learning how to read Galra and work with the machines. It reminds Matt of when Gunther was a puppy, and how Sam would chuckle fondly at the little ball of wrinkled pup whenever he stumbled his way through a trick or a command.

And God, it’s weird as hell.

When they reach the central hub, Gamma reaches out almost lazily to scan his hand and open the door. None of the Galra pay Matt any mind as he locates the malfunctioning unit, a hulking piece of equipment at the back of the room, and settles in to work. They’re well used to his presence by now. Only the captain ever looms over his shoulder or snaps when Matt hums and mutters to himself while working, and thankfully, Thaxor is nowhere in sight today.

Matt keys in his identification code and the corresponding password with barely a glance at the flurry of verification screens and the rush of Galra characters that the screen spits back in response. He would know what it says by now even if he hadn’t been able to read the language; it’s the same every time. It’s almost embarrassing to think about how basic some of the computing systems are. He’d expected more from a tyrannical, conquering alien race.

Eh, whatever. His job is just to make sure the shit works. So he gets logged in, checks the diagnostic report for the problem, and starts digging around.

Everything runs smoothly for a while despite the fact that it’s taking longer than he wanted. The system keeps stalling and needing to reboot. So much for being quick. He hopes his father doesn’t start to worry—more than he would anyway, that is.

He’s running one last diagnostic, just to be thorough, when a deep rumble shakes the hub.

Matt startles at the low noise that permeates the air and the actual shaking of the ground beneath his feet. He looks around to see if anyone else is reacting, but none of the guards seem to be bothered. He’s not even sure they noticed it.

“Okay,” Matt murmurs to himself, frowning as he turns back to his screens. “Weird.”

A second, larger rumble draws some confused looks around the room just as Matt is closing the control panel. He warily eyes the slight sway of the unit. These things have to be pretty steady, right? They’re in a goddamn mine.

He’s putting some space between himself and the equipment, ready to get out of here and back to his dad, when the third one hits.

Drones are knocked sideways, Galra growl instinctively, and Matt goes stumbling. He’s about to pick himself up when, behind him, that huge computer unit tips just too far off balance.

The first thing Matt thinks is, _This is what it must feel like to play a contact sport_. He hits the ground hard, all the breath knocked straight from his lungs. Stars dance before his eyes and yeah, if he ever needed confirmation that he was not cut out for football, this is it.

The second thing he registers is the pain. Blinding, unfathomable pain.

The console had fallen off its supports, snapped free and clear by whatever those vibrations had been, and Matt finds himself pinned under machinery. He chokes on a cry, broken and sharp to his own ears, the awful grind of something snapping, bones snapping, under the weight pressed down on him.

A new round of rumbling starts up before he can start to panic. He needs to get out of here!

Matt twists around sharply, trying to look back at what’s been injured, where he’s stuck, but as soon as he shifts, a shattering bolt of pain overtakes him and everything goes black.

 

* * *

 

Matt wakes in a haze.

There’s purple light around him here, he can tell that much. He’s not in the mines any longer. The ventilator has been removed from his face. He has no memory of being moved, of anyone coming for him—but he’s not in the mines. Matt tries to move again, tries to get up, to do anything, but he can’t. He’s been strapped down to a hard slab and he can’t move more than a fraction of an inch in any direction.

He’s trapped.

Matt swallows hard against the panic that nearly overwhelms everything else, even the pain. His own heaving, sobbing breaths press relentlessly into his ears, the only sound in the room, until he barely latches onto the soft slide of a door. A few footsteps echo through the agony and then someone is there. Leaning, looming over to look down into his face.

They’re all razor sharp angles, skin tinted blue with blood red lines, eyes that glow a familiar yellow, yet colder and deeper than any Galra he’s seen so far. Almost all of this is shadowed by the thick white hair that hangs in their face and the deep hood over it all. But Matt can see them, can see them all too clearly, they’re so close, right there, too close—

"Stay still.” They speak in a rough approximation of a voice, brimming with impatience even in those two words. “Subject is ready.”

When they turn away Matt squeezes his eyes shut, expecting that they’ll just leave him there to suffer... to die. But they don’t leave. Instead they’re joined by two more cloaked figures, wearing long plague doctor masks, who station themselves around the table.

One of them reaches out, curls a hand right over the worst of the pain in his leg. Matt chokes on a cry, eyes rolling back into his head from the white-hot intensity of it.

“Damage extends further up than just through the wound,” the figure gripping his leg notes, cold and uncaring, a simple observation. A prick of new pain, overshadowed by the rest, but sharp enough that Matt can feel nails—claws—piercing his skin. “Muscle tissue shredded.”

“So start higher,” the first one rasps, back at the head of the table, hovering over Matt. “This presents a welcome challenge. The Champion will not come to us uninjured after all. Fortune has smiled upon us with these circumstances.” There’s a murmur of agreement from both of the figures and the one at his head looks satisfied. “Who knew seeking out the remaining humans would be so fruitful?”

Matt can’t make sense of anything that’s happening, can’t find his voice to ask. He doesn’t even get a chance to try. The pain in his leg is building, and building fast, and Matt screams, arching against the straps that hold him down. They bite into his arms painfully, but he can’t separate that sensation from everything else.

“Shall we start?”

“Proceed as planned.” An awful grin overtakes the first one’s face. He closes his eyes tight against the sight, only to have them spring open again as something starts to pull at the injury.

No. Not pull. Cut.

They’re cutting into the wound.

Horror mixes with confusion and panic and he can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t understand, can’t take it.

Matt wishes he were blind as he stares upward into that awful, grinning face. It’s not Galra—he knows all kinds of Galra faces by now and this isn’t one of them. They murmur something, something alien and and garbled. It doesn’t translate, or maybe Matt’s beyond understanding, his brain too overwhelmed and scrambled with pain.

Dizziness hits him fast and hard when he smells the metallic sharpness of blood. _His_ blood. Matt is fading fast, darkness swelling at the edges of his vision. He doesn’t fight it, can’t, but he doesn’t want to.

He wants it to _end_.

Matt shudderingly sighs as he starts to slide toward the relief of unconsciousness until there’s a sharp sting across one cheek and his eyes fly open in shock. It feels like they slapped him, but they haven’t moved an inch. The grin is back.

Fingers— _claws_ —settle lightly at his temples, not so much gentle as barely restrained. That awful smile is going to be burned into Matt’s memory. Another painful pull-cut- _slice_ into injured leg and Matt is brutally reminded by the straps that he can’t even curl up in a sad attempt at protecting himself from this ruinous agony.

It’s only when he’s panting for air in a lull that Matt realizes the cutting has stopped. His whole body feels numb. That’s probably for the best, he supposes—but he’s not numb enough to ignore when something starts _digging_ at the muscles of his injured leg, prodding and pulling and somehow feeling like it’s actually inside the limb. As Matt screams again he wonders how long he can keep this up; his throat already feels like it’s on fire.

But maybe, _maybe_ they’ll take pity on him.

He holds onto that hope, tears streaming down his temples, fingers locked into steely fists, until the two cloaked figures step away from him. A sigh of relief almost escapes his lips.

It stumbles instead into a scream when they start in on his other leg.

This one is worse, it’s so much worse, because he can’t understand _why_. The first leg had been injured—whatever they did was because of the injury, but they’re done with that, it’s done, it’s over. Except that now there’s pain where there wasn’t before, where there shouldn’t be, and it’s only just begun.

He can hear everything in awful clarity: the murmuring of the two at work, the crackle and burning scent of something unseen, the last echoes of his own cries bouncing off the walls and a low, rough, almost delighted sound… A laugh. Coming from the one at his head.

They’re laughing at him.

Their sharp nails press hard at Matt’s temples. They look utterly delighted, taking sick pleasure in his pain. Spots dance dangerously before Matt’s eyes, he’s falling, he’s failing—The cruel grin is the only thing he can see.

Every time Matt tries to succumb to oblivion there’s a shock at his temples that brings him gasping back to the surface. He feels every single touch inflicted on him. And then, without warning, it’s gone.

As unexpectedly as they appeared, the two cloaked figures disappear from his sides, leaving Matt to struggle for breath through his mouth that tastes like blood and a throat scraped raw with screams. Slowly, the fingers at his temples drift to brace on the table at either side of his head.

That grinning face leans down once more, closer than it ever was before, and the teeth part in a hoarse cackle that ends with, “Be grateful, human. You have been given a gift.” The figure pulls back, hovering just on the edges of Matt’s blurring vision. “Never let it be said the Empire does not reward those in its glorious service.”

Then they’re gone.

He’s alone.

Alone.

Oh god, they just left him here alone.

Renewed panic claws sharp and tight in his throat and the cry that wrenches itself free is a sad, broken sob. Matt closes his eyes tight because he can’t cover his ears to block it out, still strapped down as he is. Strapped down, left alone, left to _die_ —

No, not to die. Not to die, because it hurts, everything hurts, but pain is good. Pain is real, it’s present, and feeling pain is very much an indicator that he’s still alive for the moment.

Matt breathes in and winces. It’s like that first day in the mines except that there’s no message to be granted here, no critical warning he can heed—this is just pain, and unlike the rest it’s self-inflicted. The only reminder to be had is that he’s pinned down.

Trapped.

No. Bad. Reroute and refocus. Matt forces his eyes open, flinching at the new glare of the lights, framed heavy now by the darkness dancing at the edge of his vision. No shocks to keep him awake anymore.

He doesn’t know how long he lies there, still strapped down and trying not to hyperventilate, before more footsteps pound into his hazy head and a familiar face leans down. Kranok. The Galra is speaking to him, he can see his mouth moving, but Matt can’t force himself to focus enough to hear him.

The pressure of the straps eases and then disappears completely. The second it’s gone Matt lurches upward, instantly regretting the move. His stomach turns, and Matt barely manages to curl toward one side before losing whatever it was he ate that morning (is it still the same day? God only knows). Kranok’s hands fall to his shoulders, bracing him.

“Easy,” Kranok murmurs. “Don’t fight it. It will only make it worse.” He’s as gruff as ever, but Matt thinks this is him being reassuring. He coughs, shaking under the Galra’s hands, bile coating his tongue again. “That’s right, very good.”

Someone else’s voice rises hesitantly, too quiet or far away for Matt to understand, and Kranok snaps back, “I don’t care what the witch wants! He’s not going back to that filthy cell!”

Matt doesn’t think he wants to know what they’re talking about. He swallows roughly and his head dips forward, just enough to catch a glimpse of his own lower body. He’s expecting sick imitations of the gore he’s seen only in B-rated horror movies before, awful bloody stumps where his legs had once been, taken for the pleasure of some monster who’d laughed while they did it.

But that’s not what he finds at all. Sure there’s blood, a startling amount—Matt’s head would spin from that alone—but where he expects emptiness, instead there is metal. It’s just Starting from identical spots on his thighs, his legs have been replaced with gleaming, jointed metal.

He chokes on a horrified laugh when he thinks, _Shiny_.

“Get me a sedative!”

Hands on his face, familiar, careful. Kranok pulls Matt’s gaze away from the metallic horror show and desperately tries to get him to focus. Matt swallows thickly, stomach churning at the tang of blood and bile on his tongue. “Kranok,” he chokes, voice breaking over the medic’s name.

“You must try to stay calm.” Kranok holds Matt’s chin in a tight, almost painful grip. “We must get you stable.” The world is starting to sway again, black edges closing in. Kranok turns away once more to roar, _“Where is that sedative?!”_  

He finally takes a syringe from someone Matt can’t see. There’s a prick in the side of his neck, just like that first time in the infirmary, and just like before, the world dissolves.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s drifting, but not dreaming.

Everything is swirling in emptiness, inky blackness where there’s no pain, no horror… nothing. Any time Matt tries to reach for something, a thought, a feeling, anything at all, it slips away before he can curl it in his grasp.

It’s almost nice, though. A reprieve from—something. Matt’s not sure, he can’t remember, can’t hold onto anything long enough to imagine a time before the darkness. It’s all there is.

“I will slit his throat!”

Or not quite.

Matt isn’t sure where the voice is coming from, or why it’s sharp with such anger, but he knows that he’s not afraid of it. It’s familiar, even with the odd, far away echo to it.

“You must keep your head.” A new voice. This one Matt doesn’t know. It’s low and deep, barely more than a rumble. It makes Matt think of stormy nights and rolling thunder. “Captain Thaxor—”

“Had no right—!”

“Kranok.” Ah, that’s who it is. “You cannot let your fondness for the humans cloud your senses.”

“This is not _fondness_.” Kranok says it like it’s something dirty, and it catches Matt’s attention. He tries to focus on their words. “The witch came here with the intent to do them harm and she—”

“What was Thaxor to do? Refuse Haggar? Turn her away, deny her access? He is loyal, and she does as she pleases. There is no stopping her atrocities.”

The effort of listening brings Matt closer to the surface. His mind tries to sink back, away from the throbbing pain that awaits him in consciousness, but it snags on certain words. _Witch. Haggar. Atrocities._

“I could have stopped this.”

“How? For the love of all that is—Tell me how you—”

“ _I could have stopped this!_ Kolivan be damned, let him reprimand me, let him pull me by my ears like I’m some foolish pup but I could have stopped this, stopped _her,_ Therek!”

Therek is a name Matt knows, the Galra commander that oversees the entire colony. Why the hell is _he_ here? Who the fuck is Kolivan?

“And you would be dead.” The snap of Therek’s voice brooks no argument. “The boy as well, without you here. It is awful, what has happened, a true horror. But there is nothing to be done about it now.”

 _What happened?_ It’s so hard to remember. Everything is too slippery. But he thinks they’re talking about him and Matt is determined to know—

A long silence. Then, “They are different, Therek. They are not much… But they are different.”

“We shall see in time. For now we can only hope that he survives the night.” A pause. A sigh. “...I fear what this means for the Champion...”

The last words are swallowed up in pain that Matt barely recalls, pain he thinks he’s not supposed to feel anymore, something different from the consuming physical agony of his body.

He barely registers how odd that is before the darkness takes him yet again. 

Maybe it’ll last this time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to take a look at where we drew inspiration for Matt's legs, then you can follow this link to the wonderful art and the artist who created it! Pop over and give Mars some love!
> 
> http://yaboykeiji.tumblr.com/post/157220701184/give-us-rebel-leader-matt-holt-whos-been-through
> 
> EDIT 7/11/17: There is now art for the fic and for this chapter! We are both blown away!  
> http://arrival-layne.tumblr.com/post/162882095862/art-based-from-come-hell-from-the


	4. Chapter 4

“They’ve healed quite nicely.”

“Have they?”

“Yes.” Matt doesn’t need to look to know that Kranok is watching him. He can feel the weight of his gaze, those yellow eyes—long since familiar—resting heavy. Matt knows that Kranok is looking for something, but he doesn’t have a clue what it could be.

And he’s just not sure he cares.

Matt eases himself off the edge of the examination table, wincing as his feet hit the floor. The whir of the mechanics is loud enough to cause a momentary distraction from the pain that gnaws constantly at the seam where metal meets what’s left of his skin and bones.

He frowns, shifting his weight, watching the lights gleam off the angle of a knee. The Galra prosthetics look dangerous, the metal dark and with a strange depth to it. Not quite silver, or even a duller gray. It’s like nothing Matt has seen before, new and strange. Alien.

The thought is almost enough to make him laugh.

Almost.

“Matthew.”  
  
Matt looks up meeting Kranok’s inquisitive, searching stare with an arched brow. “It’s weird that you use my name now,” he says flatly. “You didn’t used to.”

“It is of no consequence,” Kranok says dismissively before continuing. “Pay attention. You are healing, far better than I could have hoped just a handful of cycles ago, but your full range of function has not yet begun to return—”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.” Matt drops his gaze away from the table he’d been sitting on. The table he’d been strapped to weeks before. He fucking hates being here.

“Do not interrupt.” Kranok is stern, but barely so. There’s none of the sharpness to his tone that Matt has long come to expect from the Galra. It’s been gone since he woke up after the legs, dampened by pity. “You must work to strengthen what remains of your natural limbs if you wish to regain what use you had.”

Matt snorts derisively, shaking his head. “Yeah, sure. I’ll just pop into robo-physical therapy a few times a week and then everything’ll go back to normal.”

“Matthew—”

“I’m fine.” Matt glances to him, meeting his gaze for a moment—just a moment—before looking to the door instead. He shifts his weight again. “We done?”

“...Yes. For today, we are done.”

“Great.” Matt flashes a quick, wooden smile, and ignores Kranok’s irritated growl while he painfully makes his way toward the door of the infirmary. Beta waits for him outside, silent and oddly patient at the near glacial pace that’s all Matt can steadily manage. The tech digs into what’s left of his natural limbs, each step more painful than the last.

Beta doesn’t say a word, but he’s careful to set their pace light but constant. It’s only the glint of a metal prosthetic in the dim evening glow with each step that keeps Matt from wondering why. The guard’s gait is even and steady. Beta has tech like Matt’s own, and he’s functioning just fine.

Matt keeps his gaze down and tries to walk a little faster.

It’s late enough that work in the mines is finished, and the prisoners have been escorted to the mess and then back to their cells for the night. The halls are empty of all but the patrolling drones while the Galra take shifts between grabbing dinner and whatever else they do when they’re “off duty.” Matt doesn’t know, and he doesn’t really care. He’s sure Kranok would tell him if he asked, just out of relief at Matt seemingly putting some effort into the bi-weekly sessions the medic insists on.

When they reach the cell Matt shares with his dad, he offers Sam only a flat, “Hey,” before Beta locks the door behind him.

“Matt,” Sam murmurs, immediately sitting up and reaching for his son.

“I’m fine, Dad.” Matt shrugs off the attempted contact and drags himself over to his own cot.

“What did Kranok say?” Sam asks as he settles on the cot next to Matt. One hand hovers anxiously at Matt’s back but never quite lands. “No infection? Everything healing cleanly?”  
  
“I don’t know why you ask, you’re not that kind of doctor,” Matt mutters. He flops down sideways with his feet still resting on the floor. “I’m fine.”

“I think we both know that’s not true,” Sam sighs. Matt isn’t looking at him, but he knows that he’s shaking his head, shoulders hanging heavy. He’s gotten very good at that, knowing what others are doing without looking at them. “What did Kranok say, Matt?”

“That everything is healing fine, but that he has concerns about me regaining the full functionality I used to have.” Matt curls his fingers in a loose fist on the cot. “Don’t know what he expects me to do about it.”

Sam blinks in surprise, probably at getting a straight answer for once. Matt almost feels bad about how closed-off he’s been recently.

His father's hand finally rests on Matt’s side. “We’ll work on it,” he murmurs. “Did he say how?”

Matt shrugs. “Strength building, I guess.”

“We can do that.” Matt hates the false cheer in Sam’s voice. Why can’t he just accept what a shithole their life is? Why does he have to keep pretending everything is going to be okay?

“Can I just go to sleep?” Matt doesn’t care about the answer, set on already doing just that.

There’s a long silence before he hears his father sigh again, and then another before he speaks. “I was hoping we could talk a bit.”

“I don’t think there’s really anything for us to talk about.” Matt swallows back the prickle of annoyance that starts to bubble up in his throat.

“I think there’s quite a lot for us to talk about—”  
  
“Is there?” Matt snaps. That stupid dad-voice, just like it sounded on Earth. “Do you want to rehash the fact that we’re prisoners? Slaves? That we’re never gonna see Mom or Katie again? That we’re trapped here and there’s nothing we can do about it?!” He clenches his jaw and stares stonily at the wall across from him.

“We haven’t talked about any of that. I would if you wanted to.” There’s such a care in Sam’s voice, something gentle that Matt recognizes from his childhood, from scraped knees and loving fingers brushing away tears from his cheeks. Hearing it now makes Matt frown.

It sits wrong, like rubbing salt in a wound. Matt feels his left foot twitch on the floor, an unconscious movement that he wouldn’t have been aware of before.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Dad. Talking isn’t going to do us any good. It isn’t going to help.”

“It can’t hurt.” Sam looks down at him, frowning. Concerned. “We’re… we’re in a rough situation, son—” Matt doesn’t bother to swallow the harsh laugh that bubbles past his lips. Sam presses on without acknowledging the sound. “—but at least we’re together. At least we’re alive.”

“Yeah,” Matt says roughly. “Right. Alive.”

As if this could be called living.

Sam sighs. “Matt… Giving up and giving in won’t make anything better. If you want to sink into misery, fine, that’s your prerogative. As for myself, I’m going to keep pushing through and trying to take you with me.” He leans down to curl an awkward hug around Matt’s shoulders, ignoring the way Matt stiffens at his touch. “You’re my son, I love you. And I hope you won’t give up.”

“I’m not—” Matt sits up, turning to frown at him. “Give up? Are you kidding me?”

“Matt—” 

“Shiro died to save my life, Dad,” Matt bites out, throat working against the anger that’s quickly overwhelming his previous frustration. Pain flashes in his father’s eyes but Matt doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking _care_. “I’m not giving anything up. I’m just accepting that this is it! This is all we have!”

Sam’s mouth goes tight for a moment. “Yes, I’m sure this is what Takashi would want to see.”

If Matt were standing he would have staggered back. “What?”

“‘Accepting that this is it’? Matt, you’re the most bullheaded young man I know. What makes you think that ‘this is it’? That we can’t get back to your mother and sister? That Takashi—”

“Stop it!” Matt snaps, his voice rough. His eyes burn with the threat of tears that he refuses to let fall. “Stop trying to have fucking _hope_ about this.”

“What else am I supposed to do?” Sam pushes to his feet with a huff to pace the length of their cell. It doesn’t put much distance between them but it’s enough for Matt to get a good look at his father. He’s thinner than he used to be, he looks older, tired. But he stands as straight and tall as he ever did in his Garrison uniform, even if he’s draped in the prison garb instead. “Tell me, Matthew, enlighten me.”

“There’s no rational reason to think we can get back to Earth!” Matt glares up at him. “We’re prisoners! We’re stuck here and _this is it_! And—and Shiro is dead, Dad, stop pretending he’s not.” Matt spits the words, not wanting to taste the bitter pill he’s forced himself to swallow.

“Matt,” Sam sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’m just trying to—”

“I don’t know what delusions you’re living with,” Matt snaps before he can stop himself. “Or what makes you think that we’re ever getting out of here, but I don’t want any part of it!”

Sam’s brow furrows deeply, and his eyes are so sad. Matt hates that he looks like that. “Things are starting to get a bit heated.” Matt curls his hands into fists to keep himself from flinching at the tired tone that threads into his father’s voice. “I think maybe it’s time we took a step back and took a breather so we can both stay calm—”

“Don’t tell me to stay calm!” Matt doesn’t consciously make the decision to stand, to spring to his feet, but doing so is an instant fucking mistake. Pain shoots through him so suddenly that Matt sees spots, and he stumbles forward with an unbidden cry, the mechanics whining pathetically as his knees buckle.

“Matt!” His father reaches for him, quick to try to help him, to catch him, and Matt flinches back before he can, sending himself sprawling backward.

“Don’t!”

Matt hits the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth. He ends up on his ass, the cold of the hard ground quickly seeping through his clothes, but it’s pushed away by the burn of anger mixed with rising shame. Fucking useless, can’t even hold his own weight anymore... “Don’t touch me! I shouldn’t need your help to fucking stand! I don’t—”

“There is nothing wrong with needing my help!” Sam snaps, eyes blazing. He’s angry, furious, and Matt is startled by it. “I’m here for you, Matt! I’m right here and I want to try to help, but I can’t do anything if you won’t let me!”

“And what are you supposed to do?” Matt demands. “There’s nothing you can do, nothing either of us can do! Haven’t you been listening?!” He clenches his jaw and looks away, glaring at the distant cell door. They’re both close to yelling now, voices hoarse and cracked and loud. He’s surprised they haven’t been told off for it yet. “I don’t know why you think—I don’t have anything else to say about it.”

“You haven’t been saying anything!” Sam sinks to his knees at Matt’s side, reaching desperately for his hands. Matt tries to pull away, but he can’t escape his father’s determined grip. It takes Matt a moment to realize that Sam’s hands are shaking. Takes him a moment longer to see the sheen that’s glazed over his father’s eyes.

Matt holds Sam’s gaze, taken aback by the threat of tears. He’s never seen his father cry before, not throughout all this, not ever. He’s not supposed to see him cry.

“I’m here,” Sam is saying, quieter now. He’s not quite whispering, but his voice is weak and uneven. “I don’t know why you won’t talk to me, Matt. We’ve been through so much… _You’ve_ been through so much, so many horrible things, son…” His gaze flickers down to the Galra prosthetics, dark with something too profound to be called mere sadness. Sam swallows, hard, and continues, voice even weaker, “I don’t know why you won’t talk to me… but I’m here.” His grip goes tighter on Matt’s hands.

Well what do you say to that? Matt drops his eyes to their linked hands and slumps forward. What a fucking mess. 

“Dad, I…” His jaw works soundlessly and he swallows hard. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Neither do I,” Sam admits softly. When he blinks a tear escapes to roll down his cheek. It falls onto Matt’s leg and Sam hurriedly pulls his hands away to wipe off the drop, but Matt flinches back from the touch.

Matt looks away, but not before he sees the way his father’s face falls. Guilt burns hotter than any lingering anger or frustration, mixing with the shame like some awful, toxic cocktail. Shiro’s voice drifts through his mind. _Take care of your father_. The desperate whisper has become an accusation.

“I’m… I’m sorry,” Matt murmurs, wrapping his arms tight around himself. “Dad, I’m sorry.” There’s more he should say, but nothing comes ready to his tongue.

“So am I. I know you’re struggling.” Sam offers a hand again and Matt takes it this time, squeezing tight in a weak attempt to reconcile all the mistakes he’s made. It’s not perfect but it’s all he can manage right now.

Sam shifts to one knee so he can give a boost and says, “Here, let’s get you up.”

“I’ve got it, Dad,” Matt mutters out of habit, but Sam holds stubbornly to his hand anyway. It’s such a Katie thing to do that Matt has to choke down a sudden sob.

“Are you alright?”

“I—yeah.” Matt lets his dad help him get to his feet again, his other arm bracing shakily against the cot until he can sit. Sam only lets go of his hand when he’s sitting pressed against his side. Matt shivers at the contact, every brush feeling too close, too much, and he wants to pull away from it as much as he doesn’t. God, he’s a fucking mess.

“I don’t know where we go from here,” Sam sighs, running a hand tiredly over his face. “I’m… I’m well aware of our situation, Matt. I know our circumstances are bleak, to say the least. We’re so far from home and it might be foolish to ever think of getting back… but I have to hope.”

Matt doesn’t say anything. He can’t. He doesn’t trust himself not to ruin this even more.

“Maybe that makes me daft,” Sam chuckles humorlessly. “But it’s all I can do. Have hope.”

“It’s hard,” Matt whispers, closing his eyes tight. “I don’t think I have any hope left.”

“Lean on me.” Sam curls an arm around his shoulders, pulls him in tight against his thin, yet warm frame. “Draw on mine. Let me help you, Matt.” Lips brush his temple lightly, the barest whisper of a kiss. “I’m your father, I’m always going to be here for you.”

“Promise?” Matt hates himself for the whimper that claws its way free. He sounds so weak and pathetic. A little boy clinging to his dad for reassurance he shouldn’t need.

“I promise.” Sam brushes Matt’s bangs back from his face, so gentle and careful. “I’m not going anywhere.”

 _I promise, Matt. I won’t let go_.

Matt squeezes his eyes tighter, Shiro’s last promise overlapping too closely with this new one from his father. It hurts, it hurts so badly, and Matt wants to curl into a ball and disappear, wants everything to stop, wants to scream until his throat is raw and cry until he can’t anymore.

He settles for turning into his father’s embrace, tucking his face against his shoulder and breathing out a shaky sigh. Sam wraps him up tighter, holds him close. Matt has to do better. He has to _be_ better, has to try and make this easier for them both.

They’re prisoners. Slaves. It hurts to walk, it hurts to move, and every day feels longer than the last, but at least they have each other. Matt swallows against the threatening burn of tears and lets that knowledge settle deep in his chest. They have each other.

And that has to be enough. Matt has to make it enough.

It isn’t easy to snap himself from the autopilot he’s been running on since the… incident that gave him his legs, but it definitely isn’t the hardest thing he’s ever done. It’s for Sam after all, his father, someone who loves him and cares about him and is just plain worried about losing him to everything that’s happened.

So he puts in the effort.

There’s not a lot that he can do, but it’s really just the little things that matter, the little things that make Sam happy. A smile in the morning, a brush of their shoulders as they’re heading in and out for work around the base, Matt sitting down with him at night and actually voicing something that’s weighing heavy on his mind.

Such little things, but God if they don’t make Sam light right up. That alone makes Matt start to feel better too.

Matt wouldn’t try to call their lives good. They’re still prisoners, slaves, still stuck a million lightyears from home and any concrete hope of ever getting out, but it’s better as the weeks go by.

Really, it’s all he can hope for.

He should have known better than to hope for anything at all.

“Wait, where are you going?” Matt asks, squinting at the assignment screen layout. “Sector 8? We’ve never had access to that area before.”

“The designation says there’s been a massive systems failure,” Sam hums, busying himself with gathering tools. “I know that sector has its own techs who are actually trained with the skills we’ve cobbled together, but I would guess it’s too much for them.”

“There’s other techs?” Matt blinks, turning around to look at his father.

“Yes, Matthew,” Sam chuckles, sealing the work bag before slinging it over his shoulder. “This isn’t a very large base from what I can gather, but it’s far too large for two untrained ‘engineers’ who can barely read the language.”

Matt rolls his eyes. “I don’t appreciate the air quotes.” He leans back against the console, watching his dad move across the workroom, double checking that he has everything he might need. “I got straight A's through all my Garrison courses, including engineering, thank you very much.”

“Noted.” Sam smiles. “But yes. There are other techs. I’ve gotten to know a few of them quite well over meals since Kranok schedules your appointments through dinner.”

“Don’t know why he keeps it up. He hates it as much as I do. Scowling the entire damn time,” Matt huffs, feeling only slightly like a petulant teen.

“He’s a medical professional, or whatever the cultural equivalent is. Presumably he’s invested in the simple fact of your health. Surely it would reflect poorly on his skills if you were to become ill.” Sam raises an eyebrow at Matt just as the door to the workroom opens, Galra guard Epsilon standing at the ready. “Ah, well, I suppose that’s the end of that line of conversation.” He holds his arms out for Matt to claim a hug if he wants.

Matt hesitates momentarily, but he’s trying to be better, right? So he pushes away from the console and walks as steadily as he can toward his father. He stumbles at the end, but his dad is there to catch him. Sam wraps him up in a warm hug and a murmured promise: “I’ll be back soon, son.”

“I’ll be here.” Matt hugs him back as tight as he can before letting go, swaying a little uncertainly in the wake of the embrace. “Have fun, Dad.”  
  
Sam chuckles as he heads to the door, adjusting the strap on his work bag as he goes. The door shuts firmly behind him and Matt sighs as he’s left alone with only the faint buzz of the machines and the whir of the mechanics in his legs to keep him company.

He gets through his day’s work like that, shuffling around the workroom, waiting for repair calls to ping his system. The hours stretch on and on.

Dinner comes and goes. Matt eats alone and is escorted back to their cell for the night, still waiting for his father. He’s a little worried, but if it was a massive failure in a sector that isn’t nearby, they may have just housed Sam somewhere else. Still, he listens for the sound of footsteps in the hall until the moment he slips into sleep wrapped in his thin blanket.

He’s still alone when he wakes to the jarring sound of the daily alarm. Normally Sam is already awake by now and gently gets Matt up before the alarm can do the job less pleasantly, but he clearly didn’t return in the night. Matt frowns, unsettled, but there’s really nothing to do but get up and go through the usual morning routine.

Breakfast, a quick pass through the sanitation ward with the usual crop of indoor work prisoners, and then he’s being brought to their workroom. He doesn’t interact with anyone, never really has, but especially since the legs… Matt prefers to keep his head down.

He’s with Omega today, one of the younger guards from what Matt can tell from how the others tease him from time to time. He’s almost positive he’s heard Alpha call the guard “Pup” in passing. He’s another quiet one, doesn’t really like to talk, so the fact that he’s silent the entire walk up to the workroom isn’t strange… but Matt can’t shake the feeling that something’s off.

Matt steals a glance as Omega presses his hand to the access pad. He can’t tell if he’s imagining the anxious tension that’s locking up those ridiculously broad Galra shoulders or not.

Matt’s little wave of thanks is more from habit than anything as he steps inside, half-hoping that Sam might be there already. No such luck. The room is just as empty of life as he left it last night.

With a sigh, Matt settles down at the main computer to look at the morning’s readout.

Nothing on the docket too out of the ordinary, just the usual basic maintenance requirements, and a ticket on one of the officer decks to run a deeper troubleshoot on the computer that tracks the flight logs.

“Why there isn’t remote access throughout this damn place is beyond me,” Matt mutters, accepting the job and confirming that it’ll be him running the fix. The screen flashes its approval. A guard will be there soon to escort him up.

He settles in for the short wait, fiddling around with a smaller ventilator they’ve started designing with Kranok’s help until the door slides open and Omega steps in. “Second officer deck?”

“Yep,” Matt confirms, groaning a little as he gets to his feet. “That’s not far, right?”  
  
“No, not too far.” He waits patiently enough for Matt to limp his way to the door. Matt stays just behind Omega as they make their way through the halls, passing drones marching along on their patrol, a guard here or there, but no one Matt recognizes.

He’s itching to ask after his father, to see if Omega has any information at all, but he can’t bring himself to ask. It’s one thing for most of the guards to be somewhat fond of him and Sam, but it’s a whole other thing to try to engage with them on any level where he’s vulnerable. Fond or not, they’re still his captors.

They’re still the damned Empire.

There’s enough activity around the second officer deck that Omega doesn’t even have to open the door himself, they just walk right in behind a drone. Matt checks his notes to figure out which console is malfunctioning and hobbles over to it, trying to stay out of the way of the Galra and drones going about their own days. No need to provoke anyone.

Matt swallows back a sigh as he logs into the system and starts to pull up the necessary diagnostic programs. Lines of data pop up on the screen, Galra characters moving just a bit faster than he’d like. He’s gotten a good grasp on reading the language, but his dad is still much better.  
  
Finding the problem isn’t difficult. It looks like just a bungling of code from a recent update, some crossed wires between one swatch of information and another. Matt can’t help but think again that problems like these wouldn’t ever be problems at all if there were one centralized access point with unlimited reach into all the systems.

Ah well. Not like they’d listen to him even if he voiced it. Their loss.

With the issue seemingly fixed, all that’s left is running the program that was having issues to see if he’s actually accomplished something with it. He scans the logs that pop up, keeping an eye out for anything odd, but not particularly paying attention until a cargo manifesto from a ship that went out yesterday appears with something he recognizes. A number—a prisoner number.

1117-9876.  
  
His father's prisoner number.

Matt’s stomach fucking _drops_. 

No, no, that can’t be right, there has to be some logging error—he navigates away from the screen with shaking fingers to check today’s work rosters, see where his dad really is. He finds his own number with the code for the tech workroom right next to it, but beneath that, where his dad’s assignment should be… nothing. It just skips to the next person.

Matt pulls his shaking fingers off the keypad, swallowing reflexively against the threat of bile creeping up the back of his throat. There’s no way this is happening, no way that his father is just _gone_.

But the proof is right there on the screen.

He closes all the programs and stumbles to his feet, heading toward Omega and the door. He can’t be here. His work is done, whatever, he just cannot be here any more.

The trip back to the workroom passes in a blur. He feels disconnected from the world around him, well and truly displaced. Matt steps inside the room without a single glance to Omega, only snapping a bit more to attention at the sound of the lock activating behind him.

He drops heavily into the nearest seat, almost missing entirely, but managing to keep himself from slipping onto the floor.

His dad is gone.

They just took him, with no explanation, not a word or a hint—Matt’s alone. He doesn’t have anyone left now.

He’s alone.

Matt closes his eyes tight and wraps his arms around himself. The emptiness of the room is crushing, the knowledge that his father is gone, taken away, and Matt is left behind. _Again_. He can feel the weight of solitude constricting his lungs, closing his throat, and he chokes on a desperate breath turning into a sob. No. **_No_**! They can’t both be gone!

Matt curls into himself, trying to stave off the pressure of panic and the threat of tears. There’s no time for this now. He has to—he has to do something. He has to find Sam, get him back somehow—

With what? He’s trapped here behind a locked door, relying on two painfully new limbs to barely get him around.

He has nothing.

A numb haze sinks into his bones. He played along and still they took everything from him.

_Ping!_

An alarm rings through the room from one of the consoles on the wall, pulling Matt from his thoughts with a gasp. He blinks, can’t tell if he’s imagining the warmth of tears slipping down his cheeks, and swallows against the hard lump forming quick in his throat.

The computer pings again, and Matt is forcing himself to his feet without thinking.

He makes his usual slow-moving way to the console.

“Why are you making that sound,” he mutters to the computer as he approaches, blinking away a fresh spill of tears when Sam doesn’t chuckle at his conversations with inanimate objects. Matt lowers himself into a seat to figure out what’s going on.

His stomach churns at the thought of just getting back to work like nothing has changed at all, but what else is he supposed to do? Sam is gone, they took him away, but Matt is still here. Still here, still a prisoner, still bound to do the work the Galra put in front of him. There’s nothing else.

And if there’s nothing else, well…

Matt resigns himself to doing this one task. And then the next, and the next, until it’s the end of the day and Omega is back to escort him to dinner. One thing at a time, right? One assignment, one day, one meal, one more night alone in the cell he and his dad used to share. One more morning, and another day.

Then another.

And another.

Another new routine.

This one goes down like a sour pill, sticks in his throat, and Matt feels like he’s choking with every breath he takes, but there’s no one around to notice anymore. No one to care.

The ache in his chest takes up a permanent place somewhere beside his broken heart. It festers at the edges of his sanity and his soul. It steals his words until he’s not speaking unless absolutely necessary, shuffling silently through the day, eating alone while other prisoners murmur to one another across tables in the mess. The quiet feels like the only way to survive.

The only interruption to his attempt at peace is Kranok’s continued insistence to meet and perform seemingly useless check ups on a regular basis. Matt doesn’t engage with him. They’re spending entire sessions locked in uncomfortable silence until the Galra gets frustrated with his lack of responsiveness and sends him away.

Matt hates the meetings with Kranok more than ever, hates even more how lonely he feels on the days he won’t see the medic. It’s on one of these days, nearly two weeks since his father’s disappearance, that he’s sitting alone at a table in the mess when someone settles down across from him.

“You are Holt’s kin, are you not?” The low, breathy voice comes from a being that Matt has seen a few times in the mess but never interacted with. They’re small and slender, looking far too delicate for mine work, but then, when has that ever stopped the Galra?

It takes him a few moments to work a sound out of his throat before Matt can answer, “I’m his son.”

“I am Mir. I worked with Holt whenever he came to our sector, and he’d started taking meals with us. We were saddened to hear of his departure.” Mir lowers their head.

“It’s—his name is Sam,” Matt whispers. “Holt” is something only Garrison officers used, and mostly for Matt himself when he inevitably got on someone’s (Iverson’s) nerves. “You… you worked with him? On what?”

“The same work we always do. You are an engineer as well, are you not? 

Matt nods confirmation.

“Holt—Sam?” Their mouth curls oddly around the new name. “He spoke often of you.”

Matt doesn’t know what to say to that, so he just nods again. Mir folds long, spindly fingers together on the table, watches Matt with dark eyes. Matt shifts uncertainly under their attention

“Can I… can I help you with something?” he eventually asks, unsure what else to do.

“You are young,” Mir observes, holding Matt steady in their gaze. “You are young and you are brilliant. Your kin… your Sam. He told us of your purpose in leaving your planet, the mission you were on when the Galra captured your crew.”

“What about it?”

“You are young,” Mir says again. “And you have been through much. Many would not keep going as you have. Many would not have survived.”

Matt shrugs. “I didn’t have much choice.”

“There is always a choice.” Mir tilts their head, studying Matt. “Do you have a name?”

“Matt. Matt Holt."

“You are also Holt?”

“It’s my—yeah. It’s our family name.” The pedant in Matt would delve further, but right now he just wants to know where this stranger is going with their line of questioning. “Just call me Matt.”

“It is nice to meet you, Matt.” Mir untangles their fingers and offers a hand out toward him. “This is how humans greet one another, yes? It was how Sam greeted us.”  
  
“Yeah.” Matt nods, taking the offered hand, giving it a brief shake. “Not always. Usually just when we meet someone we don’t know for the first time, but…. Yeah.” He lets go of Mir’s hand and curls back in on himself. He’s aware he’s being rather rude, but he honestly doesn’t care. Mir doesn’t seem to mind, going back to their serene observation from across the table.

“Was there… something you wanted to know?” Matt watches Mir watching him, wondering if there’s any point to this other than rote sympathy—or pity. If it’s mere formality he’d rather go back to his solitary routine than play at friendliness. He’s done putting on a happy face.

“I wanted to introduce myself, that is all.” Mir folds their fingers back together. “Sam has a unique mind and soul. In a short time, I came to count him as a friend, and losing him saddens me greatly. As it does you, as his kin. I wanted to let you know that you are not alone here, Matt.” Mir spreads their hands now, lips twitching up in a small shadow of a smile. “Not with so many like you so close.”

“...Thanks.” Matt drops his gaze from Mir, going back to his meal and trying not to collapse into his own loneliness. No matter what Mir says, he’s never going to feel any other way.

Mir seems to pick up on Matt’s attitude as they sigh and say, “You are welcome to join us any time. We would be glad to have another engineer in our midst.” With a slight nod they stand, gathering their tray, and return to their own table. Matt watches them go from the corner of his eye.

No one else approaches him and Matt ends up back in his cell soon after. He lays down on his cot with his back to the bed across from him. He can’t bear to face the empty space. Matt closes his eyes and tries to will himself to sleep.  
  
Mir’s words run through his mind, chased by the ache in his chest. _You are not alone here… Not with so many like you so close._

 _So many like you._ What did that mean? Prisoners? They’re in a prison mine, of course there are plenty of those around. Hell, they almost certainly outnumber the guards, although he’d have to check the rosters on that. Matt thinks back over the flesh and blood Galra on base, thinks of the rotating guard he named in Greek, Kranok, Thaxor, Commander Therek... Is that really all there is? Fifteen, maybe twenty Garla, with drones to fill all the spaces in between?

It sticks with him all night, into sleep and his restless dreams, and in the morning when the usual alarm wakes him, it's with Mir's words still ringing through his mind. _So many like you. So many…_

Matt throws himself out of bed, not even caring how it jars his legs, sending a newly sharp sort of pain ripping at the port where flesh meets metal, and he hurries his way to the mess for breakfast. The words drive him, they’ve taken root and Matt can’t get past them, can’t stop, doesn’t _want_ to stop.

He has to find Mir.

The small group of engineers is at the same table they always claim, talking quietly amongst themselves. Matt practically throws himself into the empty seat next to Mir. They turn to him, startled.

“Matt?”

“You said there are many like me. How many?”

“What?”

“How many prisoners are here? In the mines, on base? Do you know?” Matt can feel the stares of the other engineers, wide eyed and bewildered and questioning. Matt doesn’t look away from Mir. “How many of us are there?"

“I do not know exact numbers,” Mir says slowly, brow furrowing, dark eyes seeming to flash. Matt thinks it’s with interest. “Why do you ask?”

“How many guards are there?” Matt asks instead of answering. “Not drones. Guards. How many Galra? Less than there are prisoners, right? Barely a fraction?”

“Why do you ask?” Mir repeats, insistent and sharp.

“We outnumber them,” Matt says, feeling for the first time in too long the flush of something other than despair. “Why aren’t we doing anything about it?”

“What are you suggesting?” A tall being, pale to the point of being translucent, leans forward. “You can’t be saying what I think you are—”

“I am.” Matt looks toward them, his hand curling into a tight fist on the table. Something hot runs through his blood, burning away the hopelessness that’s dragged him down. “We outnumber the Galra. There are so many of us, _so many_ , and we can’t just sit by and let them continue to take whatever they want from us, just because they can.” He swallows against the burn so he can keep his voice. “I’m tired of them taking.”

The group around him trades glances, some fearful, some hopeful, but all curious. He’s got them hooked.

Matt forces his hand flat on the table, looking at each of the engineers with a growing sense of something larger than hope or pride. Vengeance, perhaps. 

The Galra have taken everything from him.

He’s more than ready to take something back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see the art that inspired our vision of Matt with the Galra prosthetics, follow the link to the lovely artist who created it!
> 
> http://yaboykeiji.tumblr.com/post/157220701184/give-us-rebel-leader-matt-holt-whos-been-through


	5. Chapter 5

Something is up with the guards.

Matt notices it as soon as the first of them shows up to take him to the officer deck for maintenance. It’s Alpha today, which is normal for it being so early, but all of the usual easiness about him is replaced with tension that runs through his body like a livewire. He holds his gun like he's actually ready to use it for once, instead of parading it around like the glorified accessory it usually is.

He’s silent walking through the halls, just stiffly marching Matt along, eyes locked on the path before them like he's afraid that if he doesn't pay attention something's going to catch him off guard.

Matt might have brushed it off as something weird going on with this guard in particular. Alpha is the highest-ranked of the guards that rotate through the inner base, after all; it’s not too strange to think of his tension coming from some bureaucratic Empire bullshit. But it's not just him. Every guard that Matt sees during the trip through the halls holds themselves the same way.

Tense. Tight. Alert like they never fucking are, yet also seemingly distracted. Preoccupied.

It's weird.

It's promising.

"Do you know what's going on?" Matt murmurs to Mir when they end up working the repair job together. Matt keeps an eye on the monitors and tweaks the operating code to try and narrow down which of the internal servers is having a meltdown. Mir's down on their knees, elbow deep inside the control panel, trying to get the damn circuit board to behave. How this fucking place is still standing Matt will never know.

"Commander Therek has been in meetings with his direct supervisors all morning," Mir mutters back before sighing, stretching behind them to try and grab a tool just a bit out of their reach. Matt nudges it closer with his foot, hair raising on the back of his neck at the metal scraping against the floor.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Alpha's ears twitch at the sound. Matt holds still a moment before repeating the action to scrape out a piercing squeal as he angles his ankle just right. He swallows back a smirk when the Galra's face screws up with pain. Wincing, Alpha steps out of the room, the door hissing shut behind him, leaving the two engineers on their own.

"Very nice, Matt," Mir murmurs as their lips twitch up in a small, approving smile.

"He'll pop back in soon, we don't have long." Matt brushes his bangs from his eyes and focuses back on his screen. He switches over to a different screen so he can add in the new line of code he's written. He glances down to Mir, frowning. "Who are Therek's direct supervisors?"

"I do not know." Mir shakes their head. "They have never been on planet. And they do not often contact him directly. Such a small work camp is hardly worth their attention. But today..."

"Something's going on." Matt glances quickly to the door, fingers flying to add a few more changes to the operating system code before saving it and clearing away the screens. "Something's got them all on edge."

"Perhaps we should consider acting." Mir withdraws their hands from the open console when the machine starts to beep to signify that the repair has been completed. "This might be exactly what we have been waiting for."

"Not yet." Matt types in the sequence he needs to activate a diagnostic scan on the console and make sure his code goes undetected.

“No?”

“No. They’re keyed up right now, waiting for something to happen,” Matt murmurs. “Bad timing. Gotta wait for them to settle down again. But as soon as it does...” The scan comes back clear and Matt allows himself a grin, first for his work, then for Mir.

Mir chuckles, shaking their head. “It is your call. This is your idea after all.”

“Couldn’t have done any of this without you,” Matt groans, pushing to his feet. The usual ache starts with the quiet whir of the servos in his legs. He hates to think it, but he’s actually getting used to the damn things. Had to happen eventually, he supposes. It’s been months already that he’s had them.

“You would have taken things into your own hands eventually, I’m sure.” Mir laughs again, soft and almost fond. Matt offers them a hand to help them to their feet, they accept it with a smile. “You have a fire in you, Matt. One I do not often see.”

Matt shrugs, walking toward the door while Mir finishes gathering their tools. “I’m just sick and tired of dealing with the bullshit. All that fire is, is me being pissed.”

“It’s more than that,” Mir insists, dark eyes resting steady on Matt. “You will see one day.”

“Let’s work on surviving past the next few cycles before we talk about what I might see ‘one day,’ alright?” Matt knocks on the door to catch the guards’ attention. “We’ll talk later.”

Alpha slides the door open and Matt holds up his toolbag, saying, “All done.”

As they walk back to Matt’s workroom he keeps an eye out, noting that it really is all the guards, and that several of the other prisoners have taken notice as well judging by their sidelong glances at Matt. They’ve tried to keep quiet who’s doing the planning, but word spreads.

Matt keeps his eyes ahead and doesn’t give any hint that he’s noticed the looks being shot his way. He counts what few lucky stars might still be hovering in his sky that by now Alpha and the rest are used to him catching some stares from his legs.

He gives Alpha an ironic little wave when they reach the workroom and Matt disappears back inside.

“Alright, what do we have,” Matt mutters to the main console as he settles into the seat in front of it and pulls up the list of jobs. He scans through for anything in areas he hasn’t touched yet. The new code he slipped into the officers’ machines earlier needs to spread as far as possible before they make their move, and he firmly believes that anything he wants done right, he needs to do himself.

Mir and the other engineers have been great, but… well. He doesn’t want to take any chances.

In his head, Matt ticks through the areas of the base with operational tech. Officer decks, upper command, central operations, the mines… he grins.

They’re ready. They are finally, finally ready.

He spends the rest of the day buried in tinkering work, fixing and updating various portable devices until Omega shows up to escort him to the mess. As usual, Matt collects his tray and then heads for an empty table, giving only a bare nod to Mir and the other engineers across the room, as if they’re mere acquaintances. This is what they’ve agreed to. Maintaining as many of their old routines as possible will hopefully avert extra attention from the guards. It’s worked for the last couple of months; with any luck it’ll hold out as long as they need, and that waiting period isn’t looking quite so indefinite any more.

Over the next few days the guards are still antsy, but as far as Matt can tell, they’re not on any kind of official alert. Paranoia seems to reign stronger than actual orders.

It’s the day he catches Alpha glancing at the sky, then later muttering anxiously to another guard about a Voltron, that Matt decides it’s time.

 

* * *

 

 

It starts with a malfunction.

The alarm that rings through the base at dawn to wake the prisoners goes off in the middle of the day. It’s shrill and sharp and instantly recognizable. It goes off, echoing through the halls and then stops as abruptly as it began… Only to start up again moments later.

Matt grins as his workroom console pings with a new repair assignment.

He barely restrains himself from cheerful whistling while Beta takes him to the control deck. Matt heaves a dramatically weary sigh and says to no one in particular, “To think I could’ve slept in. I didn’t know there was a snooze setting on this thing.”

The “fix” itself takes only moments, but after the alarm has died Matt makes excuses to keep himself there for a few more minutes, ostensibly checking the system. He carefully counts out the agreed-upon time and then—finally—activates his code.

A confused shout from the hall heralds his success.

The drones are shutting down where they stand.

Beta rushes out into the hall to investigate and Matt keys in a quick sequence that locks the door behind him, disabling the scanner outside from allowing the Galra access. Data starts to stream over his screens, and Matt opens up a communications line to the upper level workroom.

“Mir,” he calls. “You there?”

“Here and ready,” comes their voice back through the line. “What orders?”

“You’ve got security feeds up?”

“I am looking at them now.”

“How are the mines doing?”

“Just as planned. They are already bringing their own guards in and sending people out for the rest.”

“Excellent. Meet me at upper command.”

“Be safe.” The call disconnects and Matt takes a moment. It’s happening. This is happening.

He takes a breath and pulls up the security feeds for the hall he’s in and the ones for the path he wants to take to upper command. He gets a bit of a thrill at the sight of drones standing still in the halls, slumped over, eyes dark. Guards rush through the halls, most of them headed outside, to the mines.

All according to plan.

Matt deactivates the lock on his door and pushes away from the console as quickly as he can. Adrenaline is already racing through his veins, and he knows not to chase that feeling, knows how dangerous it is to let that high take over, but damn if it doesn’t do a little something for the ache when he walks, makes it a little easier to pick up into what could almost be an actual run.

The guards completely ignore him as he steps into the hall, but he doesn’t want to count on that level of invisibility, so he reaches down to grab a knife that someone must have dropped in their rush. It’s not going to protect him like a blaster would but he absolutely does not trust his aim. This way, at least, he’s got more than his own hands.

Inching through the halls, he tries to keep his face schooled into innocent confusion, pressing against the wall like he’s frightened every time another guard runs by. Time after time they pass as if he doesn’t even exist.

He makes it up to the upper command deck without any interference, skirts his way through two clusters of drones stopped dead on their usual patrols through the halls, and steps right up to the door. Matt raps his knuckles hard, three short knocks, grinning when the door opens for him immediately.

“How’re we doing?” he asks, stepping inside and moving to join Mir at the console.

“Very well. Most of the guards ran for the mines on their own—I’m sure you saw. Many of the officers are being taken there now by our people and those who chose to join them. They grabbed weapons from the deactivated drones. We have no locations for the commander, Captain Thaxor, or the medical officer, however.”

“Kranok is missing?” Matt frowns.

“Yes, strangely. I cannot find any of them on the feeds—wait.” Mir frowns deeply at a pop up notification on their screen.

“What?”

“Someone is sending a distress signal. From the security station at the very end of this hall—”

Matt cuts off their explanation with an irritated growl and grips his stolen knife, whirling away from the console and back toward the door. “I’ll take care of it. Keep looking for those missing officers, Thaxor especially.”

He takes off up the hall, heart pounding in his throat before Mir can try stop him. A distress signal. A fucking distress signal! How did he not think of that? If that gets out and reinforcements come, they’re fucked, that’s it. Game over.

His metal feet scrape threateningly along the floor as he takes a corner too fast, heading straight for the security station. He’s got to shut it down now . Whoever’s in there—fuck, he doesn’t know, hopefully they’ll be too freaked out to do anything but follow the other Galra into the mines.

The door is closed but not locked. Rookie mistake. Matt flings it open and startles the guard at the console, who leaps to his feet and shouts, “Stop!”

“You stop!” Matt snarls, grip going painfully tight on the hilt of his knife. “Cut the fucking signal!” He takes one step in and the guard lunges at him across the tiny space.

Without thinking, Matt slashes out in self-defense with the hand that’s still curled around the knife. It’s enough to send the guard down to the floor with a yelp. Matt only pauses a moment to take a breath before heading for the console and stopping the signal abruptly. He winces and hopes that the sudden stop won’t be even more suspicious than the signal itself. Too late to dwell now, though.

He turns back toward the door, expecting to see the guard trying to right himself, but he’s just… still.

So still.

It’s not until he sees the dark, wet shine on the blade of the knife that he realizes why.

He’s dead. Matt killed him.

His head spins sickeningly for a moment and he stumbles back to brace himself against the console, but he can’t stay here. He can’t get stuck on this. There’s a rebellion to lead and he’s one of the people put in charge.

Matt forces a breath in through his nose, out through his mouth—like he’d been taught—and steps out of the room over the guard’s body without looking back.

He hurries back up the hall, swallowing the sourness of bile on his tongue, his grip almost painfully tight on the knife still in his hand. The door back to Mir is shut again, and Matt knocks to gain entrance, weaker than before.

The door slides open again. Mir’s focus is locked onto the console screens, constantly scanning security feeds and listening in to the comms that the other engineers have connected from around the base. Matt shakily sits at a console across the room and takes over the comms.

“Still no word on those three officers,” Mir mutters. “But one of the emergency pods is gone.”

“I can check through the security archive to see who took it,” Matt says. He can at least figure out who they still need to look for, who might be a threat.

“I don’t believe our efforts should be directed there just yet,” Mir glances to Matt, frowning. “We do have a mine’s worth of Galra to deal with after all.”

“Right,” Matt sighs. He glances down at the bloodied knife that he still clutches and slowly sets it aside. He wipes his hand off on his already dirty clothes before turning to the console to open a comm to the mines.

The rebel manning the line answers quickly and crisply, with more than a taste of excitement in her voice. From her Matt gets the count of Galra imprisoned and the number of slaves still underground. There are still a few guards being sussed out and escorted to the mines by prisoners-turned-rebels, but the majority are already there.

“What should we do with them, sir?” the rebel asks breathlessly.

Matt frowns momentarily at being addressed as “sir,” but he shakes it off to answer, “Don’t do anything right now. Just get everyone else aboveground so no one’s caught down there.”

“Some of the prisoners—they’re talking about killing them.”

“No, don’t do that,” Matt orders. “Leave them. I’ll—we’ll figure that out later. What to do.” The rebels had been split during the whole planning process on how to handle their captors, now their prisoners. Matt usually tended toward mercy.

His gaze drifts to the bloody dagger at his side, and his stomach turns again.

“Tell them if anyone does anything out of turn they’ll answer to me,” Matt says, swallowing roughly. It’s a weak ass threat, but they don’t have to know that.“Just… keep the guards there. Are the charges in place?”

“Yes! The mining charges are being locked down now.”

“Okay,” Matt murmurs. “That should be threat enough to keep things under control. Keep me updated on the number of people in the mines, both Galra and prisoners. We don’t make any decisions until all our people are out of there, got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Matt cuts the comm line and is about to check in with someone else when he hears a low, raging snarl from behind.

He whips around just as Mir’s voice pierces the air, a strangled cry of pain. Matt’s heart stops as he watches their body, so thin and slight, crumple to the floor, and a dark stain of blood rapidly spreads over the loose fabric of their prison garb.

Mir hits the ground at their attacker’s feet, and Matt wrenches his gaze from them to meet the hateful lantern glare of Captain Thaxor.

He’s frozen in panic for a moment as Thaxor bares his formidable teeth and snarls again. “Should have let you die in the mines!” he shouts, stumbling over Mir’s body in his rage and his determination to get to Matt.

It’s the pathetic, boneless way the body shifts when Thaxor hits it that turns a spark into a firestorm. Matt reaches for the knife beside him and stands, so steady that he surprises himself.

The Galra barrels toward him, all snarling fury, and Matt doesn’t flinch. His legs give a mechanic whir as he lurches forward to meet Thaxor with a speed he didn’t expect, and a snarl of his own.

Matt catches Thaxor’s hand, stopping the downward arc of his weapon, and drives his own knife into the captain’s neck. He sees Thaxor’s eyes go wide, hears his choking last breath, feels that furious arm fall limp. Almost in slow motion, Matt watches Thaxor crumple to the ground.

He finds himself breathing hard and he flexes his hands, unsure whether he’s in his own body. The knife is embedded in Thaxor’s throat and Matt isn’t inclined to retrieve it. Instead he steps over the still twitching Galra toward Mir—toward his friend.

“Mir—” Matt falls hard to his knees, ignoring the scrape of metal on the floor. “Mir, come on, Mir!” Matt is as gentle as he can, turning Mir onto their back, hands hovering over the sluggishly bleeding wound.

They gasp in a shallow breath. “Matt—”

“Shh, shhh.” Matt doesn’t know whether to cry or not. What is he supposed to do? “I’ve got you. It’ll be okay, you’ll be okay—” He swallows hard around the lie, choking down the words he wants to say.

_I promise._

Too many of those cloud the air around him. He can’t let another come broken from his lips, dead on arrival.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says again, fumbling to grip one weak hand. Mir’s eyes are already fogging over, going blank and glassy and dim.

“We have done well,” Mir rasps out, clinging as tightly as he can to Matt’s hand. “They will all be free…”

“Yeah,” Matt murmurs. “Yeah, they will be, we all will—we are . You’re free, Mir.”

That knowledge may be the only thing Matt can give to them now.

Mir smiles, even as they’re fading fast. Matt swallows against the threat of tears. He holds his friend, his rebel collaborator, until their ragged breaths slow and stop.

Matt closes his eyes against the wave of despair that falls over him. One more person lost… and he’s alone again.

He wipes away tears that fell without his notice and gently lays Mir down on the floor. Later he’ll honor them properly, but for now—for now the fire that killed Thaxor is rekindling, and there are other Galra to deal with. Matt stands slowly and returns to his console to open the comm lines again.

“This is Matt Holt,” he snaps, fists curled tight on the flat of the console. Anger and grief swirl toxic in his chest. “Who is still in the mines? Are our people out?”

“All out! The doors are locked and charges are set.”

“Set them off. Set them all off now.” Matt swallows hard, but there’s no bitterness now. “I don’t want a single member of the Empire left alive.”

There’s a pause. “Sir?”

“Do it,” he snaps, looking away from the screens before him to the bodies on the floor. Mir and Thaxor, side by side, so different in life, now too similar in death. Their blood stains the floor darker, glinting under the lights. Matt kneels down to pull his knife from Thaxor’s throat. “Set them off. All of them. Now.”

“Y-yes, sir.” The line goes dead.

Matt stands silently until he hears distant explosions and the room rattles with the force.

It’s over.

They’re free.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To see the art that inspired our vision of Matt with the Galra prosthetics, follow the link to the lovely artist who created it!
> 
> http://yaboykeiji.tumblr.com/post/157220701184/give-us-rebel-leader-matt-holt-whos-been-through


	6. Chapter 6

Matt’s almost ready to go.

He’s got a few basic supplies, a pod he thinks he can figure out how to fly, and—most importantly—the coordinates for an Empire trade hub, the destination of the ship his father was loaded onto nearly two months ago. It took this long to foment the perfect revolution and Matt is not going to waste a second of his newfound freedom.

He just wishes he had more to go on for a start.

And maybe a manual on how to fly this damn thing. 

“Not everyone’s a pilot,” Matt mutters to himself, combing through files in the pod’s operating drives, trying to find anything that might help him out. So far the Galra have been as unhelpful as ever, leaving no sign of even the barest sort of “How to” guide behind. “These are emergency pods. This is the shit that needs to be accessible for, shocker, emergencies!”

A quiet ping from a datapad he’d swiped from Kranok’s abandoned infirmary catches his attention. A notification from his search of the prisoner database. Matt can’t help the hope that starts to bubble in chest.

He reaches over and grabs the pad, quickly scanning the Galra words that he mostly understands.  _Prisoner transfer… acquisition… approved Empire transaction… no location disclosed._

Fuck.

Matt lets out a frustrated sigh and sets the pad down a little harder than necessary to get back to searching through the pod files for instructions. He’ll just have to stick to the original plan of getting to the trade hub and asking questions from there. Which is… probably a bad idea, honestly, but it’s all he’s fucking got right now.

He’s sure as shit not staying here.

The few days since the rebellion that he has stayed on planet have been far too long already. A constant mix of celebration and trepidation, everyone hardly able to process that they’re free, and no one with any idea what to do next.

The engineers that worked with Mir and Matt to instigate the revolt have sort of taken point, but Matt isn’t sure how long that’s gonna last. Already there are murmurs flavored with discontent among the prisoners who’d been designated to the mines. Like fuck Matt wants to be around when that mess comes to a head.

Which is why he’s here, scowling over ridiculously complex Galra tech jargon, itching to get off planet as soon as possible so he can find his dad and not worry about what all these other people are going to do.

The communication system in the pod crackles to life as Matt stumbles through a sentence he thinks is a about docking maneuvers. He waits for a voice to come through, but after a few moments of silence he asks, “Is somebody there? Talk, dammit.”

There’s a scuffle and then a voice he can’t quite place from memory, bridging on anxious, “There’s—there’s a ship we’ve visually tagged as Empire approaching base.”

“What do you mean, ‘visually tagged’?”

“It’s not broadcasting Empire identification signals, but it looks like one of theirs.”

Matt frowns. “And it’s coming here? Are you sure?”

“It’s already breached the atmosphere!” Oh that’s definitely panic there. Matt curses, getting to his feet maybe a bit too fast (he’ll regret it later, he’s sure, but he’ll deal with that when his legs start to swell), and running from the pod into the docking bay.

He’s supposed to be fucking getting out of this mess.

A handful of the engineers are gathered in the command deck when he arrives, one reading screens as the unknown ship approaches, the others watching in terror from the wide windows.

“Have you tried to hail them?” Matt asks as he enters. “We need to know if they’re Galra before they make the surface.”

“Yes, sir!”

He almost wants to snap,  _Stop calling me sir!_  He has no power and he doesn’t want any. If anything, they’re all equals here. Not that he cares. He just wants to get away and go looking for his dad.

Maybe go looking for Shiro…

Matt shuts that thought right down before it can make itself at home next to the trodden-on hope for his dad that keeps coming back no matter how many times he tries to force it away. Finding Dad is one thing, but Shiro is something Matt won’t delude himself to hope for.

“What do we do if it’s Galra?” Rima, the thin alien at his side whispers. All eight of her arms are tangled together with worry. “Do we fight?”

“We have to,” Quni hums, his tail wrapped around his waist. Matt hasn’t known him long, but he recognizes that the gesture means he’s nervous. “What other choice do we have?”

“I’m not letting them throw me back in a cell,” Matt mutters, so low it sounds like a growl to his own ears.

“I have a frequency!” Shamarin gasps, looking up at Matt. He raises his eyebrows expectantly, silently prompting them to speak into the comms, “Base hailing incoming ship—identification?” They wince at the stilted improvisation but it’ll do for now.

There’s what seems to be a sigh of relief on the other end. “We come as friends. Who holds the base?”

...Okay, so maybe it’s not Galra after all.

“Former prisoners,” Shamarin breathes out, sinking forward onto the console with relief.

“And the Empire presence?”

“Eradicated,” Matt says, voice firm, thinking of the still vaguely smoking remains of the mines, the blackened scars that dot the ground from the charges going off. "It's just us here."

A pause. Then, “Permission to land on base?” 

For some reason, one Matt will never understand, they all turn to look to him. He doesn’t want this, he doesn’t want any part of this. But that’s just the story of his life at this point.

Silence hangs heavy in the air while everyone waits for his response. Friends… and they don’t sound Galra. There isn’t the usual accent to the translated words, nothing of the Empire to their voice. But it could be a trap, and if it is, they’re screwed. Their victory in the rebellion was because of the careful circumstances that Matt and Mir orchestrated together, because of timing. Because of luck.

Now Mir is dead. And the decision is apparently Matt’s to make.  
  
Matt leans forward, gripping the back of what had been Commander Therek’s chair to ease weight off his legs before the port can dig deeper against his skin, and nods.

“Permission granted,” he calls, the weight of the decision settling heavy on his shoulders.

“We thank you. Expect docking in ten minutes.” The comm goes silent.

The engineers glance excitedly around at one another, then at Matt. “You'll come with us to greet them, yes?” Rima asks. Her arms have relaxed and a few of them are now floating serenely around her body, an indication of contentment they’ve all witnessed more and more frequently in the days since the revolt.

Matt frowns. He doesn’t want to keep getting tangled up in this. “I’ve got a pod ready to go…”

“Please,” Quni says. “They may have questions about the rebellion—”

“You’re all capable of answering those,” Matt counters.

“Not as well as you.”

Matt feels really old. He resists the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose like he’s seen his father do countless times over the years and sighs. “Fine. But this is it. This is the last thing I’m doing before I go.”

It’s almost funny the way everyone instantly relaxes, tension ebbing from them all in a single moment. It’s baffling to him. Matt can’t understand why it matters so much to them what he does.

They all head outside together and Matt sighs again as he’s bumped to the head of the little group.

He leads them to the main landing pad, the only one large enough to accommodate a cruiser of such magnificent size. In all his time here Matt doesn’t think he’s ever seen a ship this large on base—but now this one is here, apparently crewed by non-Galra, and he pushes down nerves when the lower hatch opens.

The only way to describe the first being who emerges is  _ethereal_.

They’re impossibly tall and stunningly beautiful, with four arms placidly clasped in front of them. Matt finds himself left somewhat breathless at the sight. This is definitely not what he expected.

Behind the four-armed leader comes another incredibly tall being, this one broad and intimidating in their physicality, but with a hesitation to their step that belies that look. At the broad one’s side walks the apparent physical foil to both of them: half their height, fuzzy from what Matt can make out at this distance, and moving with the sharp control of a fighter.

“What are we getting ourselves into?” Matt murmurs, pulling himself up to his full height, and striding forward to meet the three descending from the ship.

“Greetings,” the first one calls with a soft smile. They extend their arms toward Matt and the engineers straggling behind him. “We did not expect to find such a circumstance as this.”

Matt bulks up his courage to ask, “What’d you expect, then?”

“A planet still in revolt. We came in response to an intercepted distress signal that was cut short, followed by no other attempt at extraplanetary communication that we could detect.”

A distress signal…  _oh_. Matt knows exactly what that was. He personally cut the signal after slashing the Galra guard who’d sent it out.

“Well… surprise?” Matt says, crossing his arms over his chest. He isn’t sure what to do with his hands. Sam had been the one to introduce Mir to the concept of a handshake and Matt doesn’t want to presume it would be a good idea to do the same now. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

“I am Commander Leilani.” The being, Leilani, smiles wide and warm, and the ball of tension in Matt’s chest starts to loosen under the wash of it. He doesn’t think he’s seen anyone more beautiful in his life. They spread their hands, all of them, to motion to the beings standing at their sides. “These are Commanders Kartok, and Zarra, and we are the leaders of the Intergalactic Coalition.”  
  
There’s a soft hush of awe from the engineers around him. Matt quirks a brow upward. Apparently everyone knows something he doesn’t. “Okay,” he says, gaze flicking to the two other commanders before settling to meet Leilani’s stunning blue eyes head on. “Humor me. What is that, what does that mean?” 

The other tall one—Kartok—says gravely, “We represent an alliance of thousands of planets liberated from and dedicated to fighting against the Galra Empire. Our own forces would have been prepared to aid your resistance, but it seems we are too late.” The ghost of a smile crosses his wide, stoic face. 

“Okay,” Matt repeats, still wary. He scans his gaze over the three of them quickly, trying to take in as much as possible as fast as he can. Closer now Matt can see that Leilani almost seems to glow, a faint, nearly visible aura. Everything about them is elegant and long and beautiful. Kartok is  _big_ : tall and built and barrel chested. Strong. There’s something distinctly bestial about his features, and his dark eyes seem to have an endless depth. Atop his head, between his ears, sit two uneven appendages. Matt thinks they might be horns of some sort, but they look… off. Broken and jagged, and honestly kind of like they might be painful. Zarra, the silent one, is lithe and compact, her sharp eyes seeming to burn as they scan the former prisoners much like he’s doing to her. Matt shifts his weight, wishing he had his glasses so he wouldn’t be tempted to squint, and his legs give a soft whir that sends the piqued, foxlike ears on Zarra’s head flickering in response.

Huh. Okay. Sure.

“Pardon us, but may we have your names?” Commander Leilani is smiling again.

All the engineers look to Matt.

He lifts his chin, opens his mouth to give his first name, and then pauses.  _Matt_  is something his family gave him and something Shiro and Mir both used, a reminder of the too many people he’s lost. Does he want the universe to have that now?

“Holt,” he says finally. “My name is Holt.”

One by one the other engineers give their names, each one more enthusiastic than the last. They are all near giddy now. It paints a startling contrast to the heaviness of their worry before. Leilani beams at them all, hands coming together in front of them.

“It is a pleasure to meet you all. It is not often that we find our jobs done for us, or done so well.” They turn to look to their fellow commanders, drawing a smile from Kartok, and a nod from the still silent Zarra. “We’d love for the opportunity to speak with you about your revolt, and the steps to take now that you have broken the Empire’s hold on you all.”

“Absolutely!” Rima nods, practically sparkling. Matt’s lips quirk up in the barest shadow of a smile just from how happy she is. It doesn’t linger long, but it’s nice to feel, just for the moment. He knows he’s not imagining the way Leilani’s eyes flicker to him just as the thought fades.

“Which of you leads?” Zarra speaks now, eyes sharp and calculating. There’s an accent to her speech that Matt didn’t expect. It drags at her words in an almost… musical way. She tilts her chin up, exuding an aura of total control. There’s something militaristic about her, something in the set of her shoulders that reminds Matt of instructors from the Garrison. Something that almost reminds him of Shiro, standing tall and proud at attention in his uniform.  
  
“We don’t have—” he starts only to be cut off with Quni’s eager gesture toward Matt himself.  
  
“Holt leads us,” Quni grins, tail flicking happily behind him. “He is the one who started talk of the rebellion. He is the one who made this possible.” Matt frowns as the rest of the group murmurs their consensus.

“I don’t…” He can’t deny that he led the revolt. That would just be lying. “I’m not a leader.”

Kartok looks at him and says, “It would seem that you are.”

“No, it’s a weird group delusion,” Matt says, glancing around at them all. “Guys, I shouldn’t be the one to do this. I’m not even gonna be here much longer.”

“You are best suited to speak for us and for what we have done.” Rima curls a light hand to his shoulder. “You and Mir led this whole endeavor. And with Mir passing…” Guilt hits Matt like a punch to the gut. He looks away, unable to meet anyone’s gaze.  
  
“...Fine.” He swallows against the threat of a lump in his throat. “I’ll… Let’s just get this done.” He doesn’t have to look to know the commanders are all watching him.

When he glances at them again, Kartok and Leilani trade a sideways look that Matt chooses to ignore. They can judge him all they want. He needs to find his dad, not become responsible for all these people again.

“Would you like to join us on our ship, or head inside to your base to talk?” Leilani asks, smiling at him again.  
  
“It’s up to you,” Matt shrugs, uncomfortable with everything about this. He shouldn’t be speaking for anyone. He glances to the engineers, shifting his weight on his legs. They give another soft whir with the movement, and he suppresses a wince. Already they’re starting to really hurt. “I… anywhere we could sit would be good?”

Leilani seems to notice his legs for the first time and their impossibly blue eyes widen. “Oh, of course! My apologies. If you are all comfortable with it, there is ample room on the ship, and plenty of seating. We are well used to hosting diplomatic contingents.” They stand aside and gesture for the rebels to follow Kartok and Zarra, who both turn back toward the hatch from which they descended.

As Matt draws even with them, though, Leilani falls in step at his side.

“I could heal those,” they murmur, leaning close to him, apparently for privacy’s sake.

“What?” Matt asks, looking up at them, frowning. “Heal them?”  
  
“They are causing you pain.” Leilani folds their hands together in front of themself. “I am an empath and a healer. I can feel how much it torments you, and I am certain that I can do something to help ease it.”

Woah.

“I… I don’t know if I can accept that,” Matt says hesitantly, limping along after the other two commanders.

“It is an offer without conditions. I would be happy—honored—to so serve one who has done great good here. Holt—” they lay a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Please, let me ease this suffering.”

“You don’t know me,” Matt murmurs, keeping his gaze on the backs of the engineers—his engineers.

“Must I know you to offer aid? That has never been the Coalition’s way.” They smile softly at him. “As we extend our help to any who may need it, so I will heal any in illness or pain. But if you do not wish it... “  
  
“No—” Matt catches himself by surprise with the protest. “I—they do hurt. A lot.” Something in his chest protests at so easily accepting the help, but he can argue with himself later. Right now, his legs are aching, and the flesh around the ports is swollen from running back to the command deck earlier.

Leilani latches onto this small offering of information. “How long ago was this done?”

Matt shrugs. “Months? Maybe half a year? I don't really know.”

Tutting, Leilani murmurs, “I would prefer to see to it sooner rather than later. A moment, please.” They lengthen their strides to pull ahead of Matt and catch Kartok and Zarra each by a shoulder, muttering low in their ears. The two of them glance back at Matt.

He fights the urge to drop his gaze away again. If they want to judge him for this, for these damn atrocities that he never asked for, then he’s going to fucking look at them while they do it. To his surprise it’s not judgement or disgust that he sees there, not even pity like he’s used to catching from other prisoners.

Instead he finds grave understanding, and a deep well of sadness.

Leilani kisses Kartok on the cheek—which Matt almost does a double take at—and returns to him with a smile. “We can take as much time as we need. Kartok and Zarra will ensure your compatriots are comfortable while we work. Please, follow me, the infirmary is best for this.” At the first intersection of halls on the ship, Leilani takes a left turn while the others go to the right.

“Um—how far is this?” Matt asks, trying not to wince at every jarring step.

“Just ahead,” Leilani assures him. “The location was chosen to ensure that no one ill or injured would be subject to an unnecessarily long journey once onboard.”

They weren’t kidding, apparently, because only moments after they’ve finished speaking Leilani is ushering him into a warmly lit room neatly furnished with cots. It’s so different from Kranok’s space, so much less clinical and foreign. Matt had come to associate being in the infirmary with what happened there. Every time he returned, he could feel the phantom bite of the restraints holding him down and see that awful grin, burned into his memory. It was so strong that even the smell of the place would send him reeling for a moment, but there’s none of that here.

Leilani moves through the space with an aura of ease and contentedness. Even if Matt hadn’t been told they were a healer he would know this place belongs to them. “Come.” They turn to face him with a smile, two hands outstretched. “Let’s take a look.”

He eases himself onto the cot nearest them and tries not to flinch away when they kneel and place two cool hands on each of his thighs.

“These were not well cared for,” they murmur. “But I do not need to tell you that.”

“I got the best I could’ve hoped for,” Matt says, voice rough.

“But not what you deserved.”

“More than anyone else would have given me in there.” Matt can’t help but be defensive of Kranok and all he had done for him. Kranok did more than had been required of him from the start. Matt doesn’t know why and doesn’t think he ever will, but it’s the truth. And he’s not going to sit here and let anything bad be said about the one Galra who had ever shown him something that came so close to real kindness.

Leilani must read something in his tone, or feel something with their empath-ness, however that works, because they don’t press the matter. Their touch is gentle, and their fingers, as long and thin as the rest of them, brush over the metal that bites so painfully into what remains of his legs.

Matt bites back a hiss but the discomfort of touch on swollen flesh eases quickly. He watches in awe as the swelling visibly falls.

“Woah,” he breathes.

Leilani smiles up at him, absolutely stunning. “I should warn you—you may taste something like metal as I do this. It is a common side effect when I am healing.”

“O-okay.”

He watches intently as they continue to work, fingers moving gently over each leg. The ache in his bones slowly lifts. He hadn’t realized just how heavy the burden of the pain was until now… as it’s finally taken away. 

Matt can hardly believe what’s happening, but he gets to physically see the seam of skin against the metal get darker, gets to watch the raw remnants of the wound harden and heal and become a scar. As Leilani had warned him the taste something metallic washes over his tongue, sharp and clean and  _just_  different enough from the way he knows his own blood tastes that he can swallow against it without choking.

“There we go,” Leilani hums, pleased with their work. They draw back their hands, resting them all in their lap, and look up at Matt with a warm smile. “How does that feel?”

He carefully extends one leg and his eyebrows shoot up. “That—it feels fine,” he murmurs. “It’s never felt fine.”

Leilani sits back and studies him for a moment. “You have been walking on these for months. You executed your rebellion while in so much pain. How? And why?”

Matt doesn’t hesitate for a moment before answering, “Because I had to.”

They tilt their head to one side as if considering. “I see. Come, stand, move around the room with me and we will see if anything changes.” They offer him one hand that he takes with care.

As they move through the rows of cots, slowly at first but then picking up speed as Matt gains confidence in his painlessness, Leilani asks quiet questions.

“You said you were not staying. May I ask why?”  
  
“Why would I stay?” Matt asks, too excited at the prospect of being able to actually move like he used to with out pain to frown at the question. “There’s nothing for me here.”

“There are the other prisoners.” Leilani loosens their grip on his hand so he can pull away, walking on his own without their help. “The ones you led to freedom. They clearly look up to you.”

“They shouldn’t.” Walking on his own is… Matt doesn’t think he has the words to describe how good this feels. He’s smiling,  _grinning_  like he hasn’t in so long. Since Kerberos. Since Shiro. The smile dims at the thought, but he will not let it slip away. Shiro would have been happy for him, to see him walking without pain, to see him smile. “All I did was write a code and do some math.” He turns to face Leilani. “I was just the first one to get mad enough to try to do anything about it.”

They hum wordlessly, eyes locked on his every movement. “What is off this planet for you?”

“Well, home, for one. My family. My—” He pauses, debating whether to share this with them. But then… why not? Maybe they can help him somehow. “My dad was a prisoner here too. They took him a few months ago, transferred him or traded him or something, and now that everyone here is free I’m going to find him and we’re going home.”

“Were you able to find information on his whereabouts in the systems?” Leilani asks, sounding genuinely curious. “So often the information within the Empire’s databases is centralized to each specific base and area. It is difficult to gather intel past a certain point when concerning other bases or sectors.”

Matt sighs and admits, “I didn’t get much. Just the location of a trade hub where the cargo ship was headed. But it’s something to work off of.” It  _has_  to be something.

Leilani hums again. “And you were planning to take off on your own?”

“I was figuring out how to get a pod off the ground when you guys broke atmo and freaked everyone out.” Matt stops walking in favor of sitting down on a cot so he can actually inspect the the new scars around his legs. They’re smooth to the touch, definitely completely healed, with no sign of that changing. Holy shit.

“You would not even take time to rest before this mission?”

“Hell no. He’s my dad, I can’t waste time.” He looks up at Leilani. “That’s—that’s why I can’t take responsibility for this planet. I’d be effectively stuck here looking after things while my dad… I don’t even know.” He has to drop his gaze, squeezing his eyes shut to fend off thoughts of what could be happening to Sam.

“I think I understand.” Leilani sits down on the cot across from his. They look serene, sunlight trailing in through the infirmary windows, creating a beautiful backlight behind them. “Family is important. I know what it is like to lose those closest to you.” Their smile is soft, almost intimate. “And the sweet joy of getting them back in your arms.”

Matt has to take a second to look away and compose himself. He hadn’t expected so much to come up in this conversation. He clears his throat and rubs his hands over his unsettlingly normal-feeling thighs. “Well. Thank you, so much. We should probably get back to everyone.”

“Yes, of course.” Leilani stands and folds their hands in front of them, pausing long enough for Matt to get to his feet before they lead him from the infirmary.

“So… you got to ask some questions, do I get a turn now?” Matt asks as they make their way down the hall.

Leilani smiles. “Of course you do. What would you like to know?”

“This… Coalition thing.” Matt waves his hand vaguely. “How does it work? What’s the deal?”

“We are a group dedicated to fighting against the Empire. We travel and liberate planets and colonies under the abuse and neglect of the Galra Empire and we work to free and stabilize as many willing people and planets as we can.” Leilani smiles at him. “We are a network of allies and friends.”  
  
“And you’re one of three commanders that run it?” Matt brushes hair out of his face. “It’s just you three in charge of it all?”  
  
“Kartok, Zarra and I are the three Pillars of the Coalition, yes,” Leilani nods. “We each oversee a different branch directly, but we lead as a whole together. But there are many members of the Coalition who we rely on to keep things running as smoothly as possible.”

“And who runs things, you know, not at the top level?”

“We pick up people everywhere, really. Fighters, refugees, former slaves.” They nod in acknowledgment and Matt finds he doesn’t mind that much. “Some who simply wish to stand in defense of a peaceful universe.”

“Do people—you know, just do things they already know? Like the fighters join whatever force.”

Leilani laughs sweetly. “Oh no, not at all. Zarra often trains those who have never fought before once they decide to join us and become soldiers, and the areas that Kartok and I oversee are full of the newly-skilled. We are all forever learning together. It is how we grow and thrive.”

Matt hums, unsure of what else to say. Leilani guides them back to the entrance before leading them up the central hallway everyone had turned up earlier.  
  
“You know,” they say as they press their hand to an access pad to open a set of doors, “there could be a place for you here, if that is something that would be of interest to you.”

He frowns up at them. “What?”

“Your natural leadership is apparent, Holt. My fellow commanders agree. We would be glad to have you and whatever skills you choose to exercise.” Their smile is nothing but reassurance. “We have many resources at our disposal that might aid in finding your father, as well—and you would be under no obligation to remain with us when you are reunited.”

Matt almost stops in his tracks. “Are—are you really offering for me to join the Coalition?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know me,” Matt says again, frown deepening. “You literally know nothing about me.”

“I know you orchestrated a rebellion while in prison.” Leilani never breaks their calm, easy stride. “I know you wrote a code that took down the Empire systems and took care of the guards, you liberated a prison and a planet, and you have no desire to take advantage of a group who look to you naturally as someone they’d follow, seemingly without question.” They glance to Matt, a smile playing at their lips again. “All of that sounds like someone who could be a help to our cause. And I think we can be a help to you.”

“I don’t… know what to say.” He really has no idea how to respond to this. They’re essentially offering him a job with no application and no interview. A promise to take him away from here and help him find his father, and that he’ll be free to leave when he does. That is… entirely too tempting of an offer.

“There is no need to answer now. We will stay as long as necessary to facilitate peace on this planet. And if you choose to leave now, our doors will not close to you. The choice is entirely yours.”

For the first time, it hits him.

The choice is his.

Whether he stays or goes,  _he_  gets to choose. He’s free to do what he wants now, because he’s fought for that right. He’s  _killed_  for it.

And now… He’s free.

With another soft smile, Leilani stops to open a door that reveals both the Coalition commanders and his fellow prison rebels gathered around a table. They gesture for Matt to lead the way into the room.

Matt lingers long enough just outside that Leilani looks at him and asks, “Are you ready?”

Straightening up, he nods and steps forward on newly steady legs. “Yeah, I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading! This has been a project that we have worked so hard on and we are both thrilled with the response that it has gotten. This is just the beginning for Matt and we hope that y'all stick around to see what happens next. We'll be talking more on the blog about future projects, and we'd both LOVE to see you there! Come find us at this-iswhywefight.tumblr.com
> 
> As always, to see the art that inspired our vision of Matt with the Galra prosthetics (and honestly the whole Rebel Matt idea for us months go, like we're talking February here) follow the link to the lovely artist who created it! Give Mars some love, he's super talented!
> 
> http://yaboykeiji.tumblr.com/post/157220701184/give-us-rebel-leader-matt-holt-whos-been-through

**Author's Note:**

> A labor of love, months in the making. Ideally updates Tuesdays but we can't make promises.
> 
> Come find us/ask questions [on Tumblr](http://www.this-iswhywefight.tumblr.com)! We love talking Voltron all day, every day.


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